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Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

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IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.arcliive.org/details/aaronsrodOOIawrrich 


AARON'S  ROD 


AARON'S  ROD 


BY 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


W 


New  York 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER,  Inc. 


All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    The  Blue  Ball  .     .     • 7 

II    Royal  Oak 20 

III  "The  Lighted  Tree" 31 

IV  ''The  Pillar  of  Salt" 46 

V    At  the  Opera 54 

VI    Talk 66 

VII    The  Dark  Square  Garden 76 

VIII    A  Punch  in  the  Wind 85 

IX    Low- water  Mark 100 

X    The  War  Again 119 

XI    More  Pillar  of  Salt 143 

XII    NovARA 151 

XIII  WiE  Es  Ihnen  Gefaellt 176 

XIV  XX  Settembre 209 

XV    A  Railway  Journey 230 

XVI    Florence 245 

XVII  High  Up  Over  the  Cathedral  Square      .     .272 

XVIII    The  Marchesa 291 

XIX    Cleopatra,  But  Not  Anthony 309 

XX    The  Broken  Rod 320 

XXI    Words 332 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  BLUE  BALL 

There  was  a  large,  brilliant  evening  star  in  the  early  twi- 
light, and  underfoot  the  earth  was  half  frozen.  It  was  Christ- 
mas Eve.  Also  the  War  was  over,  and  there  was  a  sense  of 
relief  that  was  almost  a  new  menace.  A  man  felt  the  violence 
of  the  nightmare  released  now  into  the  general  air.  Also 
there  had  been  another  wrangle  among  the  men  on  the  pit- 
bank  that  evening. 

Aaron  Sisson  was  the  last  man  on  the  little  black  railway- 
line  climbing  the  hill  home  from  work.  He  was  late  because 
he  had  attended  a  meeting  of  the  men  on  the  bank.  He  was 
secretary  to  the  Miners  Union  for  his  colliery,  and  had  heard 
a  good  deal  of  silly  wrangling  that  left  him  nettled. 

He  strode  over  a  stile,  crossed  two  fields,  strode  another 
stile,  and  was  in  the  long  road  of  colliers^  dwellings.  Just 
across  was  his  own  house:  he  had  built  it  himself.  He  went 
through  the  little  gate,  up  past  the  side  of  the  house  to  the 
back.  There  he  hung  a  moment,  glancing  down  the  dark, 
wintry  garden. 

"My  father — my  father's  come!"  cried  a  child's  excited 
voice,  and  two  little  girls  in  white  pinafores  ran  out  in  front 
of  his  legs. 

"Father,  shall  you  set  the  Christmas  Tree?"  they  cried. 
"We've  got  onel" 

"Afore  I  have  my  dinner?"  he  answered  amiably. 

"Set  it  now.    Set  it  now. — We  got  it  through  Fred  Alton." 

"Wheer  is  it?" 

The  little  girls  were  dragging  a  rough,  dark  object  out  of  a 
corner  of  the  passage  into  the  light  of  the  kitchen  door. 

"It's  a  beauty!"  exclaimed  Millicent. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Marjory. 

7 


8  AARON'S  ROD 

"I  should  think  so,"  he  replied,  striding  over  the  dark 
bough.    He  went  to  the  back  kitchen  to  take  off  his  coat. 

"Set  it  now,  Father.    Set  it  now,"  clamoured  the  girls. 

"You  might  as  well.  You've  left  your  dinner  so  long,  you 
might  as  well  do  it  now  before  you  have  it,"  came  a  woman's 
plangent  voice,  out  of  the  brilliant  light  of  the  middle  room. 

Aaron  Sisson  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  his 
cap.  He  stood  bare-headed  in  his  shirt  and  braces,  con- 
templating the  tree. 

"What  am  I  to  put  it  in?"  he  queried.  He  picked  up  the 
tree,  and  held  it  erect  by  the  topmost  twig.  He  felt  the 
cold  as  he  stood  in  the  yard  coatless,  and  he  twitched  his 
shoulders. 

"Isn't  it  a  beauty!"  repeated  Millicent. 

"Ay! — lop-sided  though." 

"Put  something  on,  you  two!"  came  the  woman's  high  im- 
perative voice,  from  the  kitchen. 

"We  aren't  cold,"  protested  the  girls  from  the  yard. 

"Come  and  put  something  on,"  insisted  the  voice.  The 
man  started  off  down  the  path,  the  little  girls  ran  grumbling 
indoors.  The  sky  was  clear,  there  was  still  a  crystalline,  non- 
luminous  light  in  the  under  air. 

Aaron  rummaged  in  his  shed  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
and  found  a  spade  and  a  box  that  was  suitable.  Then  he 
came  out  to  his  neat,  bare,  wintry  garden.  The  girls  flew 
towards  him,  putting  the  elastic  of  their  hats  under  their 
chins  as  they  ran.  The  tree  and  the  box  lay  on  the  frozen 
earth.    The  air  breathed  dark,  frosty,  electric. 

"Hold  it  up  straight,"  he  said  to  Millicent,  as  he  arranged 
the  tree  in  the  box.  She  stood  silent  and  held  the  top  bough, 
he  filled  in  round  the  roots. 

When  it  was  done,  and  pressed  in,  he  went  for  the  wheel- 
barrow. The  girls  were  hovering  excited  round  the  tree.  He 
dropped  the  barrow  and  stooped  to  the  box.  The  girls 
watched  him  hold  back  his  face — the  boughs  pricked  him. 

"Is  it  very  heavy?"    asked  Millicent. 

"Ayl"  he  replied,  with  a  little  grunt.    Then  the  procession 


THE  BLUE  BALL  9 

set  off — the  trundling  wheel-barrow,  the  swinging  hissing  tree, 
the  two  excited  little  girls.  They  arrived  at  the  door.  Down 
went  the  legs  of  the  wheel-barrow  on  the  yard.  The  man 
looked  at  the  box. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  have  it?"  he  called. 

"Put  it  in  the  back  kitchen,"  cried  his  wife. 

"You'd  better  have  it  where  it's  going  to  stop.  I  don't 
want  to  hawk  it  about." 

"Put  it  on  the  floor  against  the  dresser.  Father.  Put  it 
there,"  urged  Millicent. 

"You  come  and  put  some  paper  down,  then,"  called  the 
mother  hastily. 

The  two  children  ran  indoors,  the  man  stood  contemplative 
in  the  cold,  shrugging  his  uncovered  shoulders  slightly.  The 
open  inner  door  showed  a  bright  linoleum  on  the  floor,  and 
the  end  of  a  brown  side-board  on  which  stood  an  aspidistra. 

Again  with  a  wrench  Aaron  Sisson  lifted  the  box.  The  tree 
pricked  and  stung.  His  wife  watched  him  as  he  entered 
staggering,  with  his  face  averted. 

"Mind"  where  you  make  a  lot  of  dirt,"  she  said. 

He  lowered  the  box  with  a  little  jerk  on  to  the  spread-out 
newspaper  on  the  floor.    Soil  scattered. 

"Sweep  it  up,"  he  said  to  Millicent. 

His  ear  was  lingering  over  the  sudden,  clutching  hiss  of  the 
tree-boughs. 

A  stark  white  incandescent  light  filled  the  room  and  made 
everything  sharp  and  hard.  In  the  open  fire-place  a  hot  fire 
burned  red.  All  was  scrupulously  clean  and  perfect.  A  baby 
was  cooing  in  a  rocker-less  wicker  cradle  by  the  hearth.  The 
mother,  a  slim,  neat  woman  with  dark  hair,  was  sewing  a 
child's  frock.  She  put  this  aside,  rose,  and  began  to  take 
her  husband's  dinner  from  the  oven. 

"You  stopped  confabbing  long  enough  tonight,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  going  to  the  back  kitchen  to  wash  his 
hands. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  came  and  sat  down  to  his  dinner.  The 
doors  were  shut  close,  but  there  was  a  draught,  because  the 


10  -  AARON'S  ROD 

settling  of  the  mines  under  the  house  made  the  doorsnot  fit. 
Aaron  moved  his  chair,  to  get  out  of  the  draught.  But  he 
still  sat  in  his  shirt  and  trousers. 

He  was  a  good-looking  man,  fair,  and  pleasant,  about 
thirty-two  years  old.  He  did  not  talk  much,  but  seemed  to 
think  about  something.  His  wife  resumed  her  sewing.  She 
was  acutely  aware  of  her  husband,  but  he  seemed  not  very 
much  aware  of  her. 

"What  were  they  on  about  today,  then?"  she  said. 

"About  the  throw-in." 

"And  did  they  settle  anything?" 

"They're  going  to  try  it — and  they'll  come  out  if  it  isn't 
satisfactory." 

"The  butties  won't  have  it,  I  know,"  she  said.  He  gave  a 
short  laugh,  and  went  on  with  his  meal. 

The  two  children  were  squatted  on  the  floor  by  the  tree. 
They  had  a  wooden  box,  from  which  they  had  taken  many 
little  newspaper  packets,  which  they  were  spreading  out  like 
wares. 

"Don't  open  any.  We  won't  open  any  of  them  till  we've 
taken  them  all  out — and  then  we'll  undo  one  in  our  turns. 
Then  we  s'll  both  undo  equal,"  Millicent  was  saying. 

"Yes,  we'll  take  them  all  out  iirst,"  re-echoed  Marjory. 

"And  what  are  they  going  to  do  about  Job  Arthur  Freer? 
Do  they  want  him?"  A  faint  smile  came  on  her  husband's 
face. 

"Nay,  I  don't  know  what  they  want. — Some  of  'em  want 
him — ^whether  they're  a  majority,  I  don't  know." 

She  watched  him  closely. 

"Majority!  I'd  give  'em  majority.  They  want  to  get  rid 
of  you,  and  make  a  fool  of  you,  and  you  want  to  break  your 
heart  over  it.  Strikes  me  you  need  something  to  break  your 
heart  over." 

He  laughed  silently. 

"Nay,"  he  said.    "I  s'll  never  break  my  heart." 

"You'll  go  nearer  to  it  over  that,  than  over  anything  else: 
just  because  a  lot  of  ignorant  monkeys  want  a  monkey  of 
their  own  sort  to  do  the  Union  work,  and  jabber  to  them,  they 


THE  BLUE  BALL  ii 

want  to  get  rid  of  you,  and  you  eat  your  heart  out  about  it. 
More  fool  you,  that's  all  I  say — more  fool  you.  If  you  cared 
for  your  wife  and  children  half  what  you  care  about  your 
Union,  you'd  be  a  lot  better  pleased  in  the  end.  But  you 
care  about  nothing  but  a  lot  of  ignorant  colliers,  who  don't 
know  what  they  want  except  it's  more  money  just  for  them- 
selves. Self,  self,  self — that's  all  it  is  with  them — and 
ignorance." 

"You'd  rather  have  self  without  ignorance?"  he  said,  smil- 
ing finely. 

"I  would,  if  I've  got  to  have  it.  But  what  I  should  like  to 
see  is  a  man  that  has  thought  for  others,  and  isn't  all  self  and 
politics." 

Her  color  had  risen,  her  hand  trembled  with  anger  as  she 
sewed.  A  blank  look  had  come  over  the  man's  face,  as  if  he 
did  not  hear  or  heed  any  more.  He  drank  his  tea  in  a  long 
draught,  wiped  his  moustache  with  two  fingers,  and  sat  look- 
ing abstractedly  at  the  children. 

They  had  laid  all  the  little  packets  on  the  floor,  and  Milli- 
cent  was  saying: 

"Now  I'll  undo  the  first,  and  you  can  have  the  second. 
I'll  take  this—" 

She  unwrapped  the  bit  of  newspaper  and  disclosed  a  silvery 
ornament  for  a  Christmas  tree:  a  frail  thing  like  a  silver  plum, 
with  deep  rosy  indentations  on  each  side. 

"Ohl"  she  exclaimed.  "Isn't  it  lovely l"  Her  fingers 
cautiously  held  the  long  bubble  of  silver  and  glowing  rose, 
cleaving  to  it  with  a  curious,  irritating  possession.  The  man's 
eyes  moved  away  from  her.  The  lesser  child  was  fumbling 
with  one  of  the  little  packets. 

"Oh!" — B.  wail  went  up  from  Millicent.  "You've  taken 
one! — You  didn't  wait."  Then  her  voice  changed  to  a 
motherly  admonition,  and  she  began  to  interfere.  "This  is 
the  way  to  do  it,  look!     Let  me  help  you." 

But  Marjory  drew  back  with  resentment. 

"Don't,  Millicent!— Don't!"  came  the  childish  cry.  But 
Millicent 's  fingers  itched. 

At  length  Marjory  had  got  out  her  treasure — a  little  silvery 


12  AARON'S  ROD 

bell,  with  a  glass  top  hanging  inside.    The  bell  was  made  of 
frail  glassy  substance,  light  as  air. 

"Oh,  the  bell!"  rang  out  Millicent's  clanging  voice.  "The 
bell!  It's  my  bell.  My  bell!  It's  mine!  Don't  break  it, 
Marjory.    Don't  break  it,  will  you?" 

Marjory  was  shaking  the  bell  against  her  ear.  But  it  was 
dumb,  it  made  no  sound. 

"You'll  break  it,  I  know  you  will.— You'll  break  it.  Give 
it  me — "cried  Millicent,  and  she  began  to  take  away  the  bell. 
Marjory  set  up  an  expostulation. 

"Let  her  alone"  said  the  father. 

Millicent  let  go  as  if  she  had  been  stung,  but  still  her  brassy, 
impudent  voice  persisted: 

"She'll  break  it.    She'll  break  it.    It's  mine—'' 

"You  undo  another,"  said  the  mother,  politic. 

Millicent  began  with  hasty,  itching  fingers  to  unclose  an- 
other package. 

"Aw— aw  Mother,  my  peacock — aw,  my  peacock,  my  green 
peacock!"  Lavishly  she  hovered  over  a  sinuous  greenish  bird, 
with  wings  and  tail  of  spun  glass,  pearly,  and  body  of  deep 
electric  green. 

"It's  mine — my  green  peacock!  It's  mine,  because  Mar- 
jory's had  one  wing  off,  and  mine  hadn't.  My  green  peacock 
that  I  love!  I  love  it!"  She  swung  it  softly  from  the  little 
ring  on  its  back.    Then  she  went  to  her  mother. 

"Look,  Mother,  isn't  it  a  beauty?" 

"Mind  the  ring  doesn't  come  out,"  said  her  mother.  "Yes, 
it's  lovely!"    The  girl  passed  on  to  her  father. 

"Look,  Father,  don't  you  love  it!" 

"Love  it?"  he  re-echoed,  ironical  over  the  word  love. 

She  stood  for  some  moments,  trying  to  force  his  attention. 
Then  she  went  back  to  her  place. 

Marjory  had  brought  forth  a  golden  apple,  red  on  one  cheek, 
rather  garish. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Millicent  feverishly,  instantly  seized  with 
desire  for  what  she  had  not  got,  indifferent  to  what  she  had. 
Her  eye  ran  quickly  over  the  packages.    She  took  one. 

"Now!"  she  exclaimed  loudly,  to  attract  attention.    "Now! 


THE  BLUE  BALL  13 

What's   this?— What's    this?    What   will    this    beauty   be?" 

With  finicky  fingers  she  removed  the  newspaper.  Marjory 
watched  her  wide-eyed.    Millicent  was  self-important. 

"The  blue  ball! "  she  cried  in  a  climax  of  rapture.  "IVe  got 
the  blue  ball" 

She  held  it  gloating  in  the  cup  of  her  hands.  It  was  a  little 
globe  of  hardened  glass,  of  a  magnificent  full  dark  blue  color. 
She  rose  and  went  to  her  father. 

"It  was  your  blue  ball,  wasn't  it,  father?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  had  it  when  you  were  a  little  boy,  and  now  I  have 
it  when  I'm  a  little  girl." 

"Ay,"  he  replied  drily. 

"And  it's  never  been  broken  all  those  years." 

"No,  not  yet." 

"And  perhaps  it  never  will  be  broken."  To  this  she  re- 
ceived no  answer. 

"Won't  it  break?"  she  persisted.    "Can't  you  break  it?" 

"Yes,  if  you  hit  it  with  a  hammer,"  he  said. 

"Aw!"  she  cried.  "I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  if  you  just 
drop  it.    It  won't  break  if  you  drop  it,  will  it?" 

"I  dare  say  it  won't." 

"But  will  it?" 

"I  sh'd  think  not." 

"Should  I  try?" 

She  proceeded  gingerly  to  let  the  blue  ball  drop,  it  bounced 
dully  on  the  floor-covering. 

"Oh-h-h! "  she  cried,  catching  it  up.    "I  love  it." 

"Let  me  drop  it,"  cried  Marjory,  and  there  was  a  per- 
formance of  admonition  and  demonstration  from  the  elder 
sister. 

But  Millicent  must  go  further.    She  became  excited. 

"It  won't  break,"  she  said,  "even  if  you  toss  it  up  in  the 
air." 

She  flung  it  up,  it  fell  safely.  But  her  father's  brow 
knitted  slightly.  She  tossed  it  wildly:  it  fell  with  a  little 
splashing  explosion:  it  had  smashed.  It  had  fallen  on  the 
sharp  edge  of  the  tiles  that  protruded  under  the  fender. 


14  AARON'S  ROD 

"Now  what  have  you  done!"  cried  the  mother. 

The  child  stood  with  her  lip  between  her  teeth,  a  look,  half 
of  pure  misery  and  dismay,  half  of  satisfaction,  on  her  pretty 
sharp  face. 

"She  wanted  to  break  it,"  said  the  father. 

"No,  she  didn't!  What  do  you  say  that  for!"  said  the 
mother.    And  Millicent  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

He  rose  to  look  at  the  fragments  that  lay  splashed  on  the 
floor. 

"You  must  mind  the  bits,"  he  said,  "and  pick  'em  all  up." 

He  took  one  of  the  pieces  to  examine  it.  It  was  fine  and 
thin  and  hard,  lined  with  pure  silver,  brilliant.  He  looked  at 
it  closely.  So — this  was  what  it  was.  And  this  was  the  end 
of  it.  He  felt  the  curious  soft  explosion  of  its  breaking  still 
in  his  ears.    He  threw  his  piece  in  the  fire. 

"Pick  all  the  bits  up,"  he  said.  "Give  over!  give  over! 
Don't  cry  any  more."  The  good-natured  tone  of  his  voice 
quieted  the  child,  as  he  intended  it  should. 

He  went  away  into  the  back  kitchen  to  wash  himself.  As 
he  was  bending  his  head  over  the  sink  before  the  little  mirror, 
lathering  to  shave,  there  came  from  outside  the  dissonant 
voices  of  boys,  pouring  out  the  dregs  of  carol-singing. 

"While  Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds  watched — " 

He  held  his  soapy  brush  suspended  for  a  minute.  They 
called  this  singing!  His  mind  flitted  back  to  early  carol  music. 
Then  again  he  heard  the  vocal  violence  outside. 

"Aren't  you  off  there!"  he  called  out,  in  masculine  menace. 
The  noise  stopped,  there  was  a  scuffle.  But  the  feet  returned 
and  the  voices  resumed.  Almost  immediately  the  door  opened, 
boys  were  heard  muttering  among  themselves.  Millicent  had 
given  them  a  penny.  Feet  scraped  on  the  yard,  then  went 
thudding  along  the  side  of  the  house,  to  the  street. 

To  Aaron  Sisson,  this  was  home,  this  was  Christmas:  the  un- 
speakably familiar.  The  war  over,  nothing  was  changed.  Yet 
everything  changed.  The  scullery  in  which  he  stood  was 
painted  green,  quite  fresh,  very  clean,  the  floor  was  red  tiles. 
The  wash-copper  of  red  bricks  was  very  red,  the  mangle  with 
its  put-up  board  was  white-scrubbed,  the  American  oil-cloth 


THE  BLUE  BALL  15 

on  the  table  had  a  gay  pattern,  there  was  a  warm  fire,  the 
water  in  the  boiler  hissed  faintly.  And  in  front  of  him, 
beneath  him  as  he  leaned  forward  shaving,  a  drop  of  water 
fell  with  strange,  incalculable  rhythm  from  the  bright  brass 
tap  into  the  white  enamelled  bowl,  which  was  now  half  full 
of  pure,  quivering  water.  The  war  was  over,  and  everything 
just  the  same.  The  acute  familiarity  of  this  house,  which  he 
had  built  for  his  marriage  twelve  years  ago,  the  changeless 
pleasantness  of  it  all  seemed  unthinkable.  It  prevented  his 
thinking. 

When  he  went  into  the  middle  room  to  comb  his  hair  he 
found  the  Christmas  tree  sparkling,  his  wife  was  making 
pastry  at  the  table,  the  baby  was  sitting  up  propped  in 
cushions. 

"Father,"  said  Millicent,  approaching  him  with  a  flat  blue- 
and-white  angel  of  cotton-wool,  and  two  ends  of  cotton — "tie 
the  angel  at  the  top." 

"Tie  it  at  the  top?"  he  said,  looking  down. 

"Yes.  At  the  very  top — because  it's  just  come  down  from 
the  sky." 

"Ay  my  word!"  he  laughed.    And  he  tied  the  angel. 

Coming  downstairs  after  changing  he  went  into  the  icy  cold 
parlour,  and  took  his  music  and  a  small  handbag.  With  this 
he  retreated  again  to  the  back  kitchen.  He  was  still  in 
trousers  and  shirt  and  slippers:  but  now  it  was  a  clean  white 
shirt,  and  his  best  black  trousers,  and  new  pink  and  white 
braces.  He  sat  under  the  gas-jet  of  the  back  kitchen,  look- 
ing through  his  music.  Then  he  opened  the  bag,  in  which  were 
sections  of  a  flute  and  a  piccolo.  He  took  out  the  flute,  and 
adjusted  it.  As  he  sat  he  was  physically  aware  of  the  sounds 
of  the  night:  the  bubbling  of  water  in  the  boiler,  the  faint 
sound  of  the  gas,  the  sudden  crying  of  the  baby  in  the  next 
room,  then  noises  outside,  distant  boys  shouting,  distant  rags 
of  carols,  fragments  of  voices  of  men.  The  whole  country 
was  roused  and  excited. 

The  little  room  was  hot.  Aaron  rose  and  opened  a  square 
ventilator  over  the  copper,  letting  in  a  stream  of  cold  air, 
which  was  grateful  to  him.     Then  he  cocked  his  eye  over 


i6  AARON'S  ROD 

the  sheet  of  music  spread  out  on  the  table  before  him.  He 
tried  his  flute.  And  then  at  last,  with  the  odd  gesture  of  a 
diver  taking  a  plunge,  he  swung  his  head  and  began  to  play. 
A  stream  of  music,  soft  and  rich  and  fluid,  came  out  of  the 
flute.  He  played  beautifully.  He  moved  his  head  and  his 
raised  bare  arms  with  slight,  intense  movements,  as  the  delicate 
music  poured  out.  It  was  sixteenth-century  Christmas  melody, 
very  limpid  and  delicate. 

The  pure,  mindless,  exquisite  motion  and  fluidity  of  the 
music  delighted  him  with  a  strange  exasperation.  There  was 
something  tense,  exasperated  to  the  point  of  intolerable  anger, 
in  his  good-humored  breast,  as  he  played  the  finely-spun 
peace-music.  The  more  exquisite  the  music,  the  more  per- 
fectly he  produced  it,  in  sheer  bliss;  and  at  the  same  time', 
the  more  intense  was  the  maddened  exasperation  within 
him. 

Millicent  appeared  in  the  room.  She  fidgetted  at  the  sink. 
The  music  was  a  bugbear  to  her,  because  it  prevented  her 
from  saying  what  was  on  her  own  mind.  At  length  it  ended, 
her  father  was  turning  over  the  various  books  and  sheets. 
She  looked  at  him  quickly,  seizing  her  opportunity. 

"Are  you  going  out.  Father?"  she  said. 

"Eh?" 

"Are  you  going  out?"    She  twisted  nervously. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  for?" 

He  made  no  other  answer,  and  turned  again  to  the  music. 
His  eye  went  down  a  sheet — then  over  it  again — then  more 
closely  over  it  again. 

"Are  you?"  persisted  the  child,  balancing  on  one  foot. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  his  eyes  were  angry  under  knitted 
brows. 

"What  are  you  bothering  about?"  he  said. 

"I'm  not  bothering — I  only  wanted  to  know  if  you  were 
going  out,"  she  pouted,  quivering  to  cry. 

"I  expect  I  am,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  recovered  at  once,  but  still  with  timidity  asked: 

"We  haven't  got  any  candles  for  the  Christmas  tree— shall 
you  buy  some,  because  mother  isn't  going  out?" 


THE  BLUE  BALL  17 

"Candles!"  he  repeated,  settling  his  music  and  taking  up 
the  piccolo. 

"Yes — shall  you  buy  us  some,  Father?    Shall  you?" 

"Candles!"  he  repeated,  putting  the  piccolo  to  his  mouth 
and  blowing  a  few  piercing,  preparatory  notes. 

"Yes,  little  Christmas-tree  candles — blue  ones  and  red  ones, 
in  boxes — Shall  you.  Father?" 

"We'll  see — if  I  see  any — " 

"But  shall  you?"  she  insisted  desperately.  She  wisely  mis- 
trusted his  vagueness. 

But  he  was  looking  unheeding  at  the  music.  Then  suddenly 
the  piccolo  broke  forth,  wild,  shrill,  brilliant.  He  was  playing 
Mozart.  The  child's  face  went  pale  with  anger  at  the  sound. 
She  turned,  and  went  out,  closing  both  doors  behind  her  to 
shut  out  the  noise. 

The  shrill,  rapid  movement  of  the  piccolo  music  seemed 
to  possess  the  air,  it  was  useless  to  try  to  shut  it  out.  The 
man  went  on  playing  to  himself,  measured  and  insistent.  In 
the  frosty  evening  the  sound  carried.  People  passing  down 
the  street  hesitated,  listening.  The  neighbours  knew  it  was 
Aaron  practising  his  piccolo.  He  was  esteemed  a  good  player: 
was  in  request  at  concerts  and  dances,  also  at  swell  balls.  So 
the  vivid  piping  sound  tickled  the  darkness. 

He  played  on  till  about  seven  o'clock ;  he  did  not  want  to  go 
out  too  soon,  in  spite  of  the  early  closing  of  the  public  houses. 
He  never  went  with  the  stream,  but  made  a  side  current  of  his 
own.  His  wife  said  he  was  contrary.  When  he  went  into 
the  middle  room  to  put  on  his  collar  and  tie,  the  two  little 
girls  were  having  their  hair  brushed,  the  baby  was  in  bed, 
there  was  a  hot  smell  of  mince-pies  baking  in  the  oven. 

"You  won't  forget  our  candles,  will  you,  Father?"  asked 
Millicent,  with  assurance  now. 

"I'll  see,"  he  answered. 

His  wife  watched  him  as  he  put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat. 
He  was  well-dressed,  handsome-looking.  She  felt  there  was 
a  curious  glamour  about  him.  It  made  her  feel  bitter.  He  had 
an  unfair  advantage — he  was  free  to  go  off,  while  she  must 
stay  at  home  with  the  children. 


1 8  AARON'S  ROD 

"There's  no  knowing  what  time  you'll  be  home,"  she  said. 

"I  shan't  be  late,"  he  answered. 

"It's  easy  to  say  so,"  she  retorted,  with  some  contempt.  He 
took  his  stick,  and  turned  towards  the  door. 

"Bring  the  children  some  candles  for  their  tree,  and  don't 
be  so  selfish,"  she  said. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  going  out. 

"Don't  say  All  right  if  you  never  mean  to  do  it,"  she  cried, 
with  sudden  anger,  following  him  to  the  door. 

His  figure  stood  large  and  shadowy  in  the  darkness. 

"How  many  do  you  want?"  he  said. 

"A  dozen,"  she  said.  "And  holders  too,  if  you  can  get 
them,"  she  added,  with  barren  bitterness. 

"Yes — all  right,"  he  turned  and  melted  into  the  darkness. 
She  went  indoors,  worn  with  a  strange  and  bitter  flame. 

He  crossed  the  fields  towards  the  little  town,  which  once 
more  fumed  its  lights  under  the  night.  The  country  ran  away, 
rising  on  his  right  hand.  It  was  no  longer  a  great  bank  of 
darkness.  Lights  twinkled  freely  here  and  there,  though 
forlornly,  now  that  the  war-time  restrictions  were  removed. 
It  was  no  glitter  of  pre-war  nights,  pit-heads  glittering  far- 
off  with  electricity.  Neither  was  it  the  black  gulf  of  the  war 
darkness:  instead,  this  forlorn  sporadic  twinkling. 

Everybody  seemed  to  be  out  of  doors.  The  hollow  dark 
countryside  re-echoed  like  a  shell  with  shouts  and  calls  and 
excited  voices.  Restlessness  and  nervous  excitement,  nervous 
hilarity  were  in  the  air.  There  was  a  sense  of  electric  sur- 
charge everywhere,  frictional,  a  neurasthenic  haste  for  excite- 
ment. 

Every  moment  Aaron  Sisson  was  greeted  with  Good-night — 
Good-night,  Aaron — Good-night,  Mr.  Sisson.  People  carrying 
parcels,  children,  women,  thronged  home  on  the  dark  paths. 
They  were  all  talking  loudly,  declaiming  loudly  about  what  they 
could  and  could  not  get,  and  what  this  or  the  other  had  lost. 

When  he  got  into  the  main  street,  the  only  street  of  shops, 
it  was  crowded.  There  seemed  to  have  been  some  violent  but 
quiet  contest,  a  subdued  fight,  going  on  all  the  afternoon  and 
evening:  people  struggling  to  buy  things,  to  get  things.  Money 


THE  BLUE  BALL  19 

was  spent  like  water,  there  was  a  fren^  of  nioney-spending. 
Though  the  necessities  of  life  were  in  abundance,  still  the 
people  struggled  in  frenzy  for  cheese,  sweets,  raisins,  pork- 
stuff,  even  for  flowers  and  holly,  all  of  which  were  scarce,  and 
for  toys  and  knick-knacks,  which  were  sold  out.  There  was 
a  wild  grumbling,  but  a  deep  satisfaction  in  the  fight,  the 
struggle.  The  same  fight  and  the  same  satisfaction  in  the  fight 
was  witnessed  whenever  a  tram-car  stopped,  or  when  it  heaved 
its  way  into  sight.  Then  the  struggle  to  mount  on  board 
became  desperate  and  savage,  but  stimulating.  Souls  sur- 
charged with  hostility  found  now  some  outlet  for  their  feelings. 

As  he  came  near  the  little  market-place  he  bethought  him- 
self of  the  Christmas-tree  candles.  He  did  not  intend  to 
trouble  himself.  And  yet,  when  he  glanced  in  passing  into  the 
sweet-shop  window,  and  saw  it  bare  as  a  board,  the  very  fact 
that  he  probably  could  not  buy  the  things  made  him  hesitate, 
and  try. 

"Have  you  got  any  Christmas-tree  candles?"  he  asked  as 
he  entered  the  shop. 

"How  many  do  you  want?" 

"A  dozen." 

"Can't  let  you  have  a  dozen.  You  can  have  two  boxes — 
four  in  a  box — eight.    Six-pence  a  box." 

"Got  any  holders?" 

"Holders?    Don't  ask.    Haven't  seen  one  this  year." 

"Got  any  toffee—?" 

"Cough-drops — two-pence  an  ounce — nothing  else  left." 

"Give  me  four  ounces." 

He  watched  her  weighing  them  in  the  little  brass  scales. 

"YouVe  not  got  much  of  a  Christmas  show,"  he  said. 

"Don't  talk  about  Christmas,  as  far  as  sweets  is  concerned. 
They  ought  to  have  allowed  us  six  times  the  quantity — there's 
plenty  of  sugar,  why  didn't  they?  We  sll  have  to  enjoy  our- 
selves with  what  we've  got.    We  mean  to,  anyhow." 

"Ay,"  he  said. 

"Time  we  had  a  bit  of  enjoyment,  this  Christmas.  They 
ought  to  have  made  things  more  plentiful." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  stuffing  his  package  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  II 

ROYAL  OAK 

The  war  had  killed  the  little  market  of  the  town.  As  he 
passed  the  market  place  on  the  brow,  Aaron  noticed  that  there 
were  only  two  miserable  stalls.  But  people  crowded  just  the 
same.  There  was  a  loud  sound  of  voices,  men's  voices.  Men 
pressed  round  the  doorways  of  the  public-houses. 

But  he  was  going  to  a  pub  out  of  town.  He  descended  the 
dark  hill.  A  street-lamp  here  and  there  shed  parsimonious 
light.  In  the  bottoms,  under  the  trees,  it  was  very  dark.  But 
a  lamp  glimmered  in  front  of  the  "Royal  Oak."  This  was  a 
low  white  house  sunk  three  steps  below  the  highway.  It  was 
darkened,  but  sounded  crowded. 

Opening  the  door,  Sisson  found  himself  in  the  stone  passage. 
Old  Bob,  carrying  three  cans,  stopped  to  see  who  had  entered 
— then  went  on  into  the  public  bar  on  the  left.  The  bar  itself 
was  a  sort  of  little  window-sill  on  the  right:  the  pub  was  a 
small  one.  In  this  window-opening  stood  the  landlady,  draw- 
ing and  serving  to  her  husband.  Behind  the  bar  was  a  tiny 
parlour  or  den,  the  landlady's  preserve. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  she  said,  bobbing  down  to  look  at  the  new- 
comer.   None  entered  her  bar-parlour  unless  invited. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  landlady.  There  was  a  peculiar  in- 
tonation in  her  complacent  voice,  which  showed  she  had  been 
expecting  him,  a  little  irritably. 

He  went  across  into  her  bar-parlour.  It  would  not  hold 
more  than  eight  or  ten  people,  all  told — ^just  the  benches  along 
the  walls,  the  fire  between — and  two  little  round  tables. 

"I  began  to  think  you  weren't  coming,"  said  the  landlady, 
bringing  him  a  whiskey. 

She  was  a  large,  stout,  high-coloured  woman,  with  a  fine 
profile,  probably  Jewish.     She  had  chestnut-coloured  eyes, 

20 


ROYAL  OAK  21 

quick,  intelligent.  Her  movements  were  large  and  slow,  her 
voice  laconic. 

"I'm  not  so  late,  am  I?"  asked  Aaron. 

"Yes,  you  are  late,  I  should  think."  She  looked  up  at  the 
little  clock.    "Close  on  nine." 

"I  did  some  shopping,"  said  Aaron,  with  a  quick  smile. 

"Did  you  indeed?  That's  news,  I'm  sure.  May  we  ask 
what  you  bought?" 

This  he  did  not  like.    But  he  had  to  answer. 

"Christmas-tree  candles,  and  toffee," 

"For  the  little  children?  Well  you've  done  well  for  once! 
I  must  say  I  recommend  you.  I  didn't  think  you  had  so  much 
in  you." 

She  sat  herself  down  in  her  seat  at  the  end  of  the  bench, 
and  took  up  her  knitting.  Aaron  sat  next  to  her.  He  poured 
water  into  his  glass,  and  drank. 

It's  warm  in  here,"  he  said,  when  he  had  swallowed  the 
liquor. 

"Yes,  it  is.  You  won't  want  to  keep  that  thick  good  over- 
coat on,"  replied  the  landlady. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  think  I'll  take  it  off." 

She  watched  him  as  he  hung  up  his  overcoat.  He  wore 
black  clothes,  as  usual.  As  he  reached  up  to  the  pegs,  she 
could  see  the  muscles  of  his  shoulders,  and  the  form  of  his 
legs.  Her  reddish-brown  eyes  seemed  to  burn,  and  her  nose, 
that  had  a  subtle,  beautiful  Hebraic  curve,  seemed  to  arch  it- 
self. She  made  a  little  place  for  him  by  herself,  as  he  re- 
turned. She  carried  her  head  thrown  back,  with  dauntless 
self-sufficiency. 

There  were  several  colliers  in  the  room,  talking  quietly. 
They  were  the  superior  type  all,  favoured  by  the  landlady,  who 
loved  intellectual  discussion.  Opposite,  by  the  fire,  sat  a 
little,  greenish  man — evidently  an  oriental. 

"You're  very  quiet  all  at  once.  Doctor,"  said  the  landlady 
in  her  slow,  laconic  voice. 

"Yes. — May  I  have  another  whiskey,  please?"  She  rose  at 
once,  powerfully  energetic. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.    And  she  went  to  the  bar. 


22  AARON'S  ROD 

"Well,"  said  the  little  Hindu  doctor,  "and  how  are  things 
going  now,  with  the  men?" 

"The  same  as  ever,"  said  Aaron. 

"Yes,"  said  the  stately  voice  of  the  landlady.  "And  I'm 
afraid  they  will  always  be  the  same  as  ever.  When  will  they 
learn  wisdom?" 

"But  what  do  you  call  wisdom?"  asked  Sherardy,  the  Hindu. 
He  spoke  with  a  little,  childish  lisp. 

"What  do  I  call  wisdom?"  repeated  the  landlady.  "Why 
all  acting  together  for  the  common  good.  That  is  wisdom 
in  my  idea." 

"Yes,  very  well,  that  is  so.  But  what  do  you  call  the 
common  good?"  replied  the  little  doctor,  with  childish  per- 
tinence. 

"Ay,"  said  Aaron,  with  a  laugh,  "that's  it."  The  miners 
were  all  stirring  now,  to  take  part  in  the  discussion. 

"What  do  I  call  the  common  good?"  repeated  the  landlady. 
"That  all  people  should  study  the  welfare  of  other  people,  and 
not  only  their  own." 

"They  are  not  to  study  their  own  welfare?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Ah,  that  I  did  not  say,"  replied  the  landlady.  "Let  them 
study  their  own  welfare,  and  that  of  others  also." 

"Well  then,"  said  the  doctor,  "what  is  the  welfare  of  a 
collier?" 

"The  welfare  of  a  collier,"  said  the  landlady,  "is  that  he 
shall  earn  sufficient  wages  to  keep  himself  and  his  family 
comfortable,  to  educate  his  children,  and  to  educate  himself; 
for  that  is  what  he  wants,  education." 

"Ay,  happen  so,"  put  in  Brewitt,  a  big,  fine,  good-humoured 
collier.  "Happen  so,  Mrs.  Houseley.  But  what  if  you  haven't 
got  much  education,  to  speak  of?" 

"You  can  always  get  it,"  she  said  patronizing. 

"Nay — I'm  blest  if  you  can.  It's  no  use  tryin'  to  educate 
a  man  over  forty— not  by  book-learning.  That  isn't  saying 
he's  a  fool,  neither." 

"And  what  better  is  them  that's  got  education?"  put  in  an- 
other man.    "What  better  is  the  manager,  or  th'  under- 


ROYAL  OAK  23 

manager,  than  we  are? — Pender^s  yaller  enough  i*  th'  face." 

*'He  is  that,"  assented  the  men  in  chorus. 

"But  because  he's  yellow  in  the  face,  as  you  say,  Mr.  Kirk," 
said  the  landlady  largely,  "that  doesn't  mean  he  has  no  ad- 
vantages higher  than  what  you  have  got." 

"Ay,"  said  Kirk.  "He  can  ma'e  more  money  than  I  can — 
that's  about  a'  as  it  comes  to." 

"He  can  make  more  money,"  said  the  landlady.  "And  when 
he's  made  it,  he  knows  better  how  to  use  it." 

"  'Appen  so,  an'  a'  ! — ^What  does  he  do,  more  than  eat  and 
drink  and  work? — an'  take  it  out  of  hisself  a  sight  harder 
than  I  do,  by  th'  looks  of  him. — ^What's  it  matter,  if  he  eats 
a  bit  more  or  drinks  a  bit  more — " 

No,"  reiterated  the  landlady.  "He  not  only  eats  and  drinks. 
He  can  read,  and  he  can  converse." 

"Me  an'  a',"  said  Tom  Kirk,  and  the  men  burst  into  a 
laugh.  "I  can  read — an'  I've  had  many  a  talk  an'  con- 
versation with  you  in  this  house,  Mrs.  Houseley — am  havin' 
one  at  this  minute,  seemingly." 

"Seemingly,  you  are,"  said  the  landlady  ironically.  "But 
do  you  think  there  would  be  no  difference  between  your  con- 
versation, and  Mr.  Pender's,  if  he  were  here  so  that  I  could 
enjoy  his  conversation?" 

"An'  what  difference  would  there  be?"  asked  Tom  Kirk, 
"He'd  go  home  to  his  bed  just  the  same," 

"There,  you  are  mistaken.  He  would  be  the  better,  and 
so  should  I,  a  great  deal  better,  for  a  little  genuine  con- 
versation." 

"If  it's  conversation  as  ma'es  his  behind  drop — "  said  Tom 
Kirk. 

"An'  puts  th'  bile  in  his  face — "  said  Brewitt.  There  was 
a  general  laugh. 

"I  can  see  it's  no  use  talking  about  it  any  further,"  said  the 
landlady,  lifting  her  head  dangerously. 

"But  look  here,  Mrs.  Houseley,  do  you  really  think  it  makes 
much  difference  to  a  man,  whether  he  can  hold  a  serious  con- 
versation or  not?"  asked  the  doctor. 


24  AARON'S  ROD 

"I  do  indeed,  all  the  difference  in  the  world— To  me,  there 
is  no  greater  difference,  than  between  an  educated  man  and 
an  uneducated  man." 

"And  where  does  it  come  in?"  asked  Kirk. 

"But  wait  a  bit,  now,"  said  Aaron  Sisson.  "You  take  an 
educated  man— take  Pender.  What's  his  education  for? 
What  does  he  scheme  for?— What  does  he  contrive  for?  What 
does  he  talk  for? — " 

"For  all  the  purposes  of  his  life,"  replied  the  landlady. 

"Ay,  an'  what's  the  purpose  of  his  life?"  insisted  Aaron 
Sisson. 

"The  purpose  of  his  life,"  repeated  the  landlady,  at  a  loss. 
"I  should  think  he  knows  that  best  himself." 

"No  better  than  I  know  it — and  you  know  it,"  said 
Aaron. 

"Well,"  said  the  landlady,  "if  you  know,  then  speak  out. 
What  is  it?" 

"To  make  more  money  for  the  firm — ^and  so  make  his  own 
chance  of  a  rise  better." 

The  landlady  was  baffled  for  some  moments.  Then  she 
said: 

"Yes,  and  suppose  that  he  does.  Is  there  any  harm  in  it? 
Isn't  it  his  duty  to  do  what  he  can  for  himself?  Don't  you  try 
to  earn  all  you  can?" 

"Ay,"  said  Aaron.  "But  there's  soon  a  limit  to  what  I  can 
earn. — It's  like  this.  When  you  work  it  out,  everything  comes 
to  money.  Reckon  it  as  you  like,  it's  money  on  both  sides. 
It's  money  we  live  for,  and  money  is  what  our  lives  is  worth — 
nothing  else.  Money  we  live  for,  and  money  we  are  when 
we're  dead:  that  or  nothing.  An'  it's  money  as  is  between 
the  masters  and  us.  There's  a  few  educated  ones  got  hold  of 
one  end  of  the  rope,  and  all  the  lot  of  us  hanging  on  to  th' 
other  end,  an'  we  s'll  go  on  pulling  our  guts  out,  time  in,  time 
out—" 

"But  they've  got  th'  long  end  o'  th'  rope,  th'  masters  has," 
said  Brewitt. 

"For  as  long  as  one  holds,  the  other  will  pull,"  concluded 
Aaron  Sisson  philosophically. 


ROYAL  OAK  25 

"An*  I^m  almighty  sure  o'  that,"  said  Kirk.  There  was  a 
little  pause. 

"Yes,  that's  all  there  is  in  the  minds  of  you  men"  said  the 
landlady.  "But  what  can  be  done  with  the  money,  that  you 
never  think  of — the  education  of  the  children,  the  improve- 
ment of  conditions — " 

"Educate  the  children,  so  that  they  can  lay  hold  of  the 
long  end  of  the  rope,  instead  of  the  short  end,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  little  giggle. 

"Ay,  that's  it,"  said  Brewitt.  "I've  pulled  at  th'  short  end, 
an'  my  lads  may  do  th'  same." 

"A  selfish  policy,"  put  in  the  landlady. 

"Selfish  or  not,  they  may  do  it." 

"Till  the  crack  o'  doom,"  said  Aaron,  with  a  glistening 
smile. 

"Or  the  crack  o'  th'  rope,"  said  Brewitt. 

"Yes,  and  then  whatV^  cried  the  landlady. 

"Then  we  s'U  all  drop  on  our  backsides,"  said  Kirk.  There 
was  a  general  laugh,  and  an  uneasy  silence. 

"All  I  can  say  of  you  men,"  said  the  landlady,  "is  that  you 
have  a  narrow,  selfish  policy. — Instead  of  thinking  of  the 
children,  instead  of  thinking  of  improving  the  world  you  live 
in—" 

"We  hang  on,  British  bulldog  breed,"  said  Brewitt.  There 
was  a  general  laugh. 

"Yes,  and  little  wiser  than  dogs,  wrangling  for  a  bone," 
said  the  landlady. 

"Are  we  to  let  t'  other  side  run  off  wi'  th'  bone,  then,  while 
we  sit  on  our  stunts  an'  yowl  for  it?"  asked  Brewitt. 

"No  indeed.  There  can  be  wisdom  in  everything. — It's 
what  you  do  with  the  money,  when  you've  got  it,"  said  the 
landlady,  "that's  where  the  importance  lies." 

It's  Missis  as  gets  it,"  said  Kirk.    "It  doesn't  stop  wi'  us." 

"Ay,  it's  the  wife  as  gets  it,  ninety  per  cent,"  they  all 
concurred. 

"And  who  should  have  the  money,  indeed,  if  not  your  wives? 
They  have  everything  to  do  with  the  money.  What  idea  have 
you,  but  to  waste  it!" 


26  AARON'S  ROD 

"Women  waste  nothing— they  couldn't  if  they  tried,"  said 
Aaron  Sisson. 

There  was  a  lull  for  some  minutes.  The  men  were  all 
stimulated  by  drink.  The  landlady  kept  them  going.  She 
herself  sipped  a  glass  of  brandy — ^but  slowly.  She  sat  near  to 
Sisson — and  the  great  fierce  warmth  of  her  presence  enveloped 
him  particularly.  He  loved  so  to  luxuriate,  like  a  cat,  in  the 
presence  of  a  violent  woman.  He  knew  that  tonight  she  was 
feeling  very  nice  to  him — a.  female  glow  that  came  out  of  her 
to  him.  Sometimes  when  she  put  down  her  knitting,  or  took 
it  up  again  from  the  bench  beside  him,  her  fingers  just  touched 
his  thigh,  and  the  fine  electricity  ran  over  his  body,  as  if 
he  were  a  cat  tingling  at  a  caress. 

And  yet  he  was  not  happy — ^nor  comfortable.  There  was 
a  hard,  opposing  core  in  him,  that  neither  the  whiskey  nor  the 
woman  could  dissolve  or  soothe,  tonight.  It  remained  hard, 
nay,  became  harder  and  more  deeply  antagonistic  to  his  sur- 
roundings, every  moment.  He  recognised  it  as  a  secret  malady 
he  suffered  from:  this  strained,  unacknowledged  opposition  to 
his  surroundings,  a  hard  core  of  irrational,  exhausting  with- 
holding of  himself.  Irritating,  because  he  still  wanted  to  give 
himself.  A  woman  and  whiskey,  these  were  usually  a  remedy 
— and  music.  But  lately  these  had  begun  to  fail  him.  No, 
there  was  something  in  him  that  would  not  give  in — ^neither  to 
the  whiskey,  nor  the  woman,  nor  even  the  music.  Even  in 
the  midst  of  his  best  music,  it  sat  in  the  middle  of  him,  this  in- 
visible black  dog,  and  growled  and  waited,  never  to  be  cajoled. 
He  knew  of  its  presence — ^and  was  a  little  uneasy.  For  of 
course  he  wanted  to  let  himself  go,  to  feel  rosy  and  loving  and 
all  that.  But  at  the  very  thought,  the  black  dog  showed  its 
teeth. 

Still  he  kept  the  beast  at  bay — ^with  all  his  will  he  kept 
himself  as  it  were  genial.  He  wanted  to  melt  and  be  rosy, 
happy. 

He  sipped  his  whiskey  with  gratification,  he  luxuriated  in 
the  presence  of  the  landlady,  very  confident  of  the  strength  of 
her  liking  for  him.   He  glanced  at  her  profile — that  fine  throw- 


ROYAL  OAK  27 

back  of  her  hostile  head,  wicked  in  the  midst  of  her  benevo- 
lence; that  subtle,  really  very  beautiful  delicate  curve  of  her 
nose,  that  moved  him  exactly  like  a  piece  of  pure  sound.  But 
tonight  it  did  not  overcome  him.  There  was  a  devilish  little 
cold  eye  in  his  brain  that  was  not  taken  in  by  what  he  saw. 

A  terrible  obstinacy  located  itself  in  him.  He  saw  the  fine, 
rich-coloured,  secretive  face  of  the  Hebrew  woman,  so  loudly 
self-righteous,  and  so  dangerous,  so  destructive,  so  lustful — and 
he  waited  for  his  blood  to  melt  with  passion  for  her.  But  not 
tonight.  Tonight  his  innermost  heart  was  hard  and  cold  as 
ice.  The  very  danger  and  lustfulness  of  her,  which  had  so 
pricked  his  senses,  now  made  him  colder.  He  disliked  her 
at  her  tricks.  He  saw  her  once  too  often.  Her  and  all  women. 
Bah,  the  love  game!  And  the  whiskey  that  was  to  help  in  the 
game!  He  had  drowned  himself  once  too  often  in  whiskey 
and  in  love.  Now  he  floated  like  a  corpse  in  both,  with  a 
cold,  hostile  eye. 

And  at  least  half  of  his  inward  fume  was  anger  because 
he  could  no  longer  drown.  Nothing  would  have  pleased  him 
better  than  to  feel  his  senses  melting  and  swimming  into  one- 
ness with  the  dark.  But  impossible!  Cold,  with  a  white 
fury  inside  him,  he  floated  wide  eyed  and  apart  as  a  corpse. 
He  thought  of  the  gentle  love  of  his  first  married  years,  and  be- 
came only  whiter  and  colder,  set  in  more  intense  obstinacy.  A 
wave  of  revulsion  lifted  him. 

He  became  aware  that  he  was  deadly  antagonistic  to  the 
landlady,  that  he  disliked  his  whole  circumstances.  A  cold, 
diabolical  consciousness  detached  itself  from  his  state  of  semi- 
intoxication. 

"Is  it  pretty  much  the  same  out  there  in  India?"  he  asked 
of  the  doctor,  suddenly. 

The  doctor  started,  and  attended  to  him  on  his  own  level. 

"Probably,"  he  answered.    "It  is  worse." 

"Worse!"  exclaimed  Aaron  Sisson.    "How's  that?" 

"Why,  because,  in  a  way  the  people  of  India  have  an  easier 
time  even  than  the  people  of  England.  Because  they  have  no 
responsibflity.    The  British  Government  takes  the  responsi- 


28  AARON'S  ROD 

bUity.  And  the  people  have  nothing  to  do,  except  their  bit 
of  work — and  talk  perhaps  about  national  rule,  just  for  a 
pastime." 

"They  have  to  earn  their  living?"  said  Sisson. 

"Yes,"  said  the  little  doctor,  who  had  lived  for  some  years 
.among  the  colliers,  and  become  quite  familiar  with  them. 
"Yes,  they  have  to  earn  their  living — and  then  no  more.  That's 
why  the  British  Government  is  the  worst  thing  possible  for 
them.  It  is  the  worst  thing  possible.  And  not  because  it  is  a 
bad  government.  Really,  it  is  not  a  bad  government.  It  is  a 
good  one — and  they  know  it — much  better  than  they  would 
make  for  themselves,  probably.  But  for  that  reason  it  is  so 
very  bad." 

The  little  oriental  laughed  a  queer,  sniggering  laugh.  His 
eyes  were  very  bright,  dilated,  completely  black.  He  was 
looking  into  the  ice-blue,  pointed  eyes  of  Aaron  Sisson.  They 
were  both  intoxicated — but  grimly  so.  They  looked  at  each 
other  in  elemental  difference. 

The  whole  room  was  now  attending  to  this  new  conversa- 
tion: which  they  all  accepted  as  serious.  For  Aaron  was  con- 
sidered a  special  man,  a  man  of  peculiar  understanding,  even 
though  as  a  rule  he  said  little. 

"If  it  is  a  good  government,  doctor,  how  can  it  be  so  bad 
for  the  people?"  said  the  landlady. 

The  doctor's  eyes  quivered  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  as 
he  watched  the  other  man.    He  did  not  look  at  the  landlady. 

"It  would  not  matter  what  kind  of  mess  they  made — and 
they  would  make  a  mess,  if  they  governed  themselves,  the 
people  of  India.  They  would  probably  make  the  greatest 
muddle  possible — and  start  killing  one  another.  But  it 
wouldn't  matter  if  they  exterminated  half  the  population,  so 
long  as  they  did  it  themselves,  and  were  responsible  for  it." 

Again  his  eyes  dilated,  utterly  black,  to  the  eyes  of  the 
other  man,  and  an  arch  little  smile  flickered  on  his  face. 

"I  think  it  would  matter  very  much  indeed,"  said  the  land- 
lady.   "They  had  far  better  not  govern  themselves." 

She  was,  for  some  reason,  becoming  angry.  The  little 
greenish  doctor  emptied  his  glass,  and  smiled  again. 


ROYAL  OAK  29 

"But  what  difference  does  it  make,"  said  Aaron  Sisson, 
"whether  they  govern  themselves  or  not?  They  only  live  till 
they  die,  either  way."  And  he  smiled  faintly.  He  had  not 
really  listened  to  the  doctor.  The  terms  "British  Govern- 
ment," and  "bad  for  the  people — ^good  for  the  people,"  made 
him  malevolently  angry. 

The  doctor  was  nonplussed  for  a  moment.  Then  he  gathered 
himself  together. 

"It  matters,"  he  said,  "it  matters. — People  should  always  be 
responsible  for  themselves.  How  can  any  people  be  respon- 
sible for  another  race  of  people,  and  for  a  race  much  older 
than  they  are,  and  not  at  all  children." 

Aaron  Sisson  watched  the  other's  dark  face,  with  its  utterly 
exposed  eyes.  He  was  in  a  state  of  semi-intoxicated  anger 
and  clairvoyance.  He  saw  in  the  black,  void,  glistening  eyes 
of  the  oriental  only  the  same  danger,  the  same  menace  that 
he  saw  in  the  landlady.  Fair,  wise,  even  benevolent  words: 
always  the  human  good  speaking,  and  always  underneath, 
something  hateful,  something  detestable  and  murderous.  Wise 
speech  and  good  intentions — they  were  invariably  maggoty 
with  these  secret  inclinations  to  destroy  the  man  in  the  man. 
Whenever  he  heard  anyone  holding  forth:  the  landlady,  this 
doctor,  the  spokesman  on  the  pit  bank:  or  when  he  read 
the  all-righteous  newspaper;  his  soul  curdled  with  revulsion 
as  from  something  foul.  Even  the  infernal  love  and  good-will 
of  his  wife.  To  hell  with  good-will !  It  was  more  hateful  than 
ill-will.    Self-righteous  bullying,  like  poison  gas! 

The  landlady  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Ten  minutes  to,  gentlemen,"  she  said  coldly.  For  she  too 
knew  that  Aaron  was  spoiled  for  her  for  that  night. 

The  men  began  to  take  their  leave,  shakily.  The  little 
doctor  seemed  to  evaporate.  The  landlady  helped  Aaron  on 
with  his  coat.  She  saw  the  curious  whiteness  round  his  nos- 
trils and  his  eyes,  the  fixed  hellish  look  on  his  face. 

"You'll  eat  a  mince-pie  in  the  kitchen  with  us,  for  luck?" 
she  said  to  him,  detaining  him  till  last. 

But  he  turned  laughing  to  her. 

"Nay,"  he  said,  "I  must  be  getting  home." 


3o  AARON'S  ROD 

He  turned  and  went  straight  out  of  the  house.  Watching 
him,  the  landlady's  face  became  yellow  with  passion  and  rage. 

"That  little  poisonous  Indian  viper,"  she  said  aloud,  at- 
tributing Aaron's  mood  to  the  doctor.  Her  husband  was 
noisily  bolting  the  door. 

Outside  it  was  dark  and  frosty.  A  gang  of  men  lingered 
in  the  road  near  the  closed  door.  Aaron  found  himself  among 
them,  his  heart  bitterer  than  steel. 

The  men  were  dispersing.  He  should  take  the  road  home. 
But  the  devil  was  in  it,  if  he  could  take  a  stride  in  the  home- 
ward direction.  There  seemed  a  wall  in  front  of  him.  He 
veered.  But  neither  could  he  take  a  stride  in  the  opposite 
direction.  So  he  was  destined  to  veer  round,  like  some  sort 
of  weather-cock,  there  in  the  middle  of  the  dark  road  out- 
side the  "Royal  Oak." 

But  as  he  turned,  he  caught  sight  of  a  third  exit.  Almost 
opposite  was  the  mouth  of  Shottle  Lane,  which  led  off  under 
trees,  at  right  angles  to  the  highroad,  up  to  New  Brunswick 
Colliery.  He  veered  towards  the  off-chance  of  this  opening, 
in  a  delirium  of  icy  fury,  and  plunged  away  into  the  dark 
lane,  walking  slowly,  on  firm  legs. 


CHAPTER  III 


It  is  remarkable  how  many  odd  or  extraordinary  people 
there  are  in  England.  We  hear  continual  complaints  of  the 
stodgy  dullness  of  the  English.  It  would  be  quite  as  just 
to  complain  of  their  freakish,  unusual  characters.  Only  en 
masse  the  metal  is  all  Britannia. 

In  an  ugly  little  mining  town  we  find  the  odd  ones  just  as 
distinct  as  anywhere  else.  Only  it  happens  that  dull  people  in- 
variably meet  dull  people,  and  odd  individuals  always  come 
across  odd  individuals,  no  matter  where  they  may  be.  So  that 
to  each  kind  society  seems  all  of  a  piece. 

At  one  end  of  the  dark  tree-covered  Shottle  Lane  stood 
the  "Royal  Oak"  public  house;  and  Mrs.  Houseley  was  cer- 
tainly an  odd  woman.  At  the  other  end  of  the  lane  was 
Shottle  House,  where  the  Bricknells  lived;  the  Bricknells  were 
odd,  also.  Alfred  Bricknell,  the  old  man,  was  one  of  the 
partners  in  the  Colliery  firm.  His  English  was  incorrect,  his 
accent,  broad  Derbyshire,  and  he  was  not  a  gentleman  in  the 
snobbish  sense  of  the  word.  Yet  he  was  well-to-do,  and  very 
stuck-up.    His  wife  was  dead. 

Shottle  House  stood  two  hundred  yards  beyond  New  Bruns- 
wick Colliery.  The  colliery  was  imbedded  in  a  plantation, 
whence  its  burning  pit-hill  glowed,  fumed,  and  stank  sulphur 
in  the  nostrils  of  the  Bricknells.  Even  war-time  efforts  had 
not  put  out  this  refuse  fire.  Apart  from  this,  Shottle  House 
was  a  pleasant  square  house,  rather  old,  with  shrubberies  and 
lawns.  It  ended  the  lane  in  a  dead  end.  Only  a  field-path 
trekked  away  to  the  left. 

On  this  particular  Christmas  Eve  Alfred  Bricknell  had  only 
two  of  his  children  at  home.  Of  the  others,  one  daughter  was 
unhappily  married,  and  away  in  India  weeping  herself  thinner; 

31 


32  AARON'S  ROD 

another  was  nursing  her  babies  in  Streatham.  Jim,  the  hope 
of  the  house,  and  Julia,  now  married  to  Robert  Cunningham, 
had  come  home  for  Christmas. 

The  party  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room,  that  the  grown- 
up daughters  had  made  very  fine  during  their  periods  of 
courtship.  Its  walls  were  hung  with  fine  grey  canvas,  it  had 
a  large,  silvery  grey,  silky  carpet,  and  the  furniture  was 
covered  with  dark  green  silky  material.  Into  this  reticence 
pieces  of  futurism,  Omega  cushions  and  Van-Gogh-like  pictures 
exploded  their  colours.  Such  chic  would  certainly  not  have 
been  looked  for  up  Shottle  Lane. 

The  old  man  sat  in  his  high  grey  arm-chair  very  near  an 
enormous  coal  fire.  In  this  house  there  was  no  coal-rationing. 
The  finest  coal  was  arranged  to  obtain  a  gigantic  glow  such  as 
a  coal-owner  may  well  enjoy,  a  great,  intense  mass  of  pure  red 
fire.  At  this  fire  Alfred  Bricknell  toasted  his  tan,  lambs-wool- 
lined  slippers. 

He  was  a  large  man,  wearing  a  loose  grey  suit,  and  sprawling 
in  the  large  grey  arm-chair.  The  soft  lamp-light  fell  on  his 
clean,  bald,  Michael-Angelo  head,  across  which  a  few  pure 
hairs  glittered.  His  chin  was  sunk  on  his  breast,  so  that  his 
sparse  but  strong-haired  white  beard,  in  which  every  strand 
stood  distinct,  like  spun  glass  lithe  and  elastic,  curved  now  up- 
wards and  inwards,  in  a  curious  curve  returning  upon  him.  He 
seemed  to  be  sunk  in  stern,  prophet-like  meditation.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  was  asleep  after  a  heavy  meal. 

Across,  seated  on  a  pouffe  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  was 
a  cameo-like  girl  with  neat  black  hair  done  tight  and  bright 
in  the  French  mode.  She  had  strangely-drawn  eyebrows,  and 
her  colour  was  brilliant.  She  was  hot,  leaning  back  behind  the 
shaft  of  old  marble  of  the  mantel-piece,  to  escape  the  fire. 
She  wore  a  simple  dress  of  apple-green  satin,  with  full  sleeves 
and  ample  skirt  and  a  tiny  bodice  of  green  cloth.  This  was 
Josephine  Ford,  the  girl  Jim  was  engaged  to. 

Jim  Bricknell  himself  was  a  tall  big  fellow  of  thirty-eight. 
He  sat  in  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  some  distance  back,  and 
stretched  his  long  legs  far  in  front  of  him.    His  chin  too  was 


"THE  LIGHTED  TREE"  33 

sunk  on  his  breast,  his  young  forehead  was  bald,  and  raised 
in  odd  wrinkles,  he  had  a  silent  half-grin  on  his  face,  a  little 
tipsy,  a  little  satyr-like.    His  small  moustache  was  reddish. 

Behind  him  a  round  table  was  covered  with  cigarettes, 
sweets,  and  bottles.  It  was  evident  Jim  Bricknell  drank  beer 
for  choice.  He  wanted  to  get  fat — that  was  his  idea.  But 
he  couldn't  bring  it  off:  he  was  thin,  though  not  too  thin, 
except  to  his  own  thinking. 

His  sister  Julia  was  bunched  up  in  a  low  thair  between 
him  and  his  father.  She  too  was  a  tall  stag  of  a  thing,  but 
she  sat  hunched  up  like  a  witch.  She  wore  a  wine-purple 
dress,  her  arms  seemed  to  poke  out  of  the  sleeves,  and  she 
had  dragged  her  brown  hair  into  straight,  untidy  strands.  Yet 
she  had  real  beauty.  She  was  talking  to  the  young  man  who 
was  not  her  husband:  a  fair,  pale,  fattish  young  fellow  in 
pince-nez  and  dark  clothes.    This  was  Cyril  Scott,  a  friend. 

The  only  other  person  stood  at  the  round  table  pouring 
out  red  wine.  He  was  a  frtsh,  stoutish  young  Englishman  in 
khaki,  Julia's  husband,  Robert  Cunningham,  a  lieutenant 
about  to  be  demobilised,  when  he  would  become  a  sculptor 
once  more.  He  drank  red  wine  in  large  throatfuls,  and  his  eyes 
grew  a  little  moist.  The  room  was  hot  and  subdued,  everyone 
was  silent. 

"I  say,"  said  Robert  suddenly,  from  the  rear — ^^'anybody 
have  a  drink?    Don't  you  find  it  rather  hot?" 

"Is  there  another  bottle  of  beer  there?"  said  Jim,  without 
moving,  too  settled  even  to  stir  an  eye-lid. 

"Yes — I  think  there  is,"  said  Robert. 

"Thanks — don't  open  it  yet,"  murmured  Jim. 

"Have  a  drink,  Josephine?"  said  Robert. 

"No  thank  you,"  said  Josephine,  bowing  slightly. 

Finding  the  drinks  did  not  go,  Robert  went  round  with  the 
cigarettes.    Josephine  Ford  looked  at  the  white  rolls. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  taking  one,  suddenly  licked 
her  rather  full,  dry  red  lips  with  the  rapid  tip  of  her  tongue. 
It  was  an  odd  movement,  suggesting  a  snake's  flicker.  She  put 
her  cigarette  between  her  lips,  and  waited.    Her  movements 


34  AARON'S  ROD 

were  very  quiet  and  well  bred;  but  perhaps  too  quiet,  they 
had  the  dangerous  impassivity  of  the  Bohemian,  Parisian  or 
American  rather  than  English. 

"Cigarette,  Julia?"  said  Robert  to  his  wife. 

She  seemed  to  start  or  twitch,  as  if  dazed.  Then  she  looked 
up  at  her  husband  with  a  queer  smile,  puckering  the  corners 
of  her  eyes.  He  looked  at  the  cigarettes,  not  at  her.  His  face 
had  the  blunt  voluptuous  gravity  of  a  young  lion,  a  great  cat. 
She  kept  him  standing  for  some  moments  impassively.  Then 
suddenly  she  hung  her  long,  delicate  fingers  over  the  box,  in 
doubt,  and  spasmodically  jabbed  at  the  cigarettes,  clumsily 
raking  one  out  at  last. 

"Thank  you,  dear — thank  you,"  she  cried,  rather  high, 
looking  up  and  smiling  once  more.  He  turned  calmly  aside, 
offering  the  cigarettes  to  Scott,  who  refused. 

"Oh!"  said  Julia,  sucking  the  end  of  her  cigarette.  "Robert 
is  so  happy  with  all  the  good  things — aren't  you  dear?"  she 
sang,  breaking  into  a  hurried  laugh.  "We  aren't  used  to  such 
luxurious  living,  we  aren't — are  we  dear? — ^No,  we're  not  such 
swells  as  this,  we're  not.  Oh,  Rohbie,  isn't  it  all  right,  isn't 
it  just  all  right?"  She  tailed  off  into  her  hurried,  wild,  re- 
peated laugh.  "We're  so  happy  in  a  land  of  plenty,  aren*t 
we  dear?" 

"Do  you  mean  I'm  greedy,  Julia?"  said  Robert. 

"Greedy! — Oh,  greedy! — he  asks  if  he's  greedy? — ^no  you're 
not  greedy,  Robbie,  you're  not  greedy.  I  want  you  to  be 
happy." 

"I'm  quite  happy,"  he  returned. 

"Oh,  he's  happy! — Really! — he's  happy!  Oh,  what  an 
accomplishment!  Oh,  my  word!"  Julia  puckered  her  eyes 
and  laughed  herself  into  a  nervous  twitching  silence. 

Robert  went  round  with  the  matches.  Julia  sucked  her 
cigarette. 

"Give  us  a  light,  Robbie,  if  you  are  happy! "  she  cried. 

"It's  coming,"  he  answered. 

Josephine  smoked  with  short,  sharp  puffs.  Julia  sucked 
wildly  at  her  light.  Robert  returned  to  his  red  wine.  Jim 
Bricknell  suddenly  roused  up,  looked  round  on  the  company,- 


"THE  LIGHTED  TREE"  35 

smiling  a  little  vacuously  and  showing  his  odd,  pointed  teeth. 

"Where's  the  beer?"  he  asked,  in  deep  tones,  smiling  full 
into  Josephine's  face,  as  if  she  were  going  to  produce  it  by 
some  sleight  of  hand.  Then  he  wheeled  round  to  the  table, 
and  was  soon  pouring  beer  down  his  throat  as  down  a  pipe. 
Then  he  dropped  supine  again.  Cyril  Scott  was  silently 
absorbing  gin  and  water. 

"I  say,"  said  Jim,  from  the  remote  depths  of  his  sprawling. 
"Isn't  there  something  we  could  do  to  while  the  time  away?" 

Everybody  suddenly  laughed — it  sounded  so  remote  and 
absurd. 

"What,  play  bridge  or  poker  or  something  conventional  of 
that  sort?"  said  Josephine  in  her  distinct  voice,  speaking  to 
him  as  if  he  were  a  child. 

"Oh,  damn  bridge,"  said  Jim  in  his  sleep-voice.  Then  he 
began  pulling  his  powerful  length  together.  He  sat  on  the 
edge  of  his  chair-seat,  leaning  forward,  peering  into  all  the 
faces  and  grinning. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that — so  long — "  said  Josephine,  in 
her  self-contained  voice.  "You  make  me  uncomfortable." 
She  gave  an  odd  little  grunt  of  a  laugh,  and  the  tip  of  her 
tongue  went  over  her  lips  as  she  glanced  sharply,  half  furtively 
round  the  room. 

"I  like  looking  at  you,"  said  Jim,  his  smile  becoming  more 
malicious. 

"But  you  shouldn't,  when  I  tell  you  not,"  she  returned. 

Jim  twisted  round  to  look  at  the  state  of  the  bottles.  The 
father  also  came  awake.    He  sat  up. 

"Isn't  it  time,"  he  said,  "that  you  all  put  away  your  glasses 
and  cigarettes  and  thought  of  bed?" 

Jim  rolled  slowly  round  towards  his  father,  sprawling  in 
the  long  chair. 

"Ah,  Dad,"  he  said,  "tonight's  the  night!  Tonight's  some 
night.  Dad. — ^You  can  sleep  any  time — "  his  grin  widened — 
"but  there  aren't  many  nights  to  sit  here — ^like  this — Eh?" 

He  was  looking  up  all  the  time  into  the  face  of  his  father, 
full  and  nakedly  lifting  his  face  to  the  face  of  his  father,  and 
smiling  fixedly.    The  father,  who  was  perfectly  sober,  except 


36  AARON'S  ROD 

for  the  contagion  from  the  young  people,  felt  a  wild  tremor 
go  through  his  heart  as  he  gazed  on  the  face  of  his  boy.  He 
rose  stiffly. 

"You  want  to  stay?"  he  said.  "You  want  to  stay! — ^Well 
then — well  then,  I'll  leave  you.  But  don*t  be  long."  The 
old  man  rose  to  his  full  height,  rather  majestic.  The  four 
younger  people  also  rose  respectfully — only  Jim  lay  still  pros- 
trate in  his  chair,  twisting  up  his  face  towards  his  father. 

"You  won't  stay  long,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  round  a 
little  bewildered.  He  was  seeking  a  responsible  eye.  Jose- 
phine was  the  only  one  who  had  any  feeling  for  him. 

"No,  we  won't  stay  long,  Mr.  Bricknell,"  she  said  gravely. 

"Good  night.  Dad,"  said  Jim,  as  his  father  left  the  room. 

Josephine  went  to  the  window.  She  had  rather  a  stiff, 
poupee  walk. 

"How  is  the  night?"  she  said,  as  if  to  change  the  whole 
feeling  in  the  room.  She  pushed  back  the  thick  grey-silk 
curtains.  "Why?"  she  exclaimed.  "What  is  that  light  burn- 
ing?   A  red  light?" 

"Oh,  that's  only  the  pit-bank  on  fire,"  said  Robert,  who 
had  followed  her. 

"How  strange! — ^Why  is  it  burning  now?" 

"It  always  burns,  unfortunately — it  is  most  consistent  at  it. 
It  is  the  refuse  from  the  mines.  It  has  been  burning  for 
years,  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  the  contrary." 

"How  very  curious!  May  we  look  at  it?"  Josephine  now 
turned  the  handle  of  the  French  windows,  and  stepped 
out. 

"Beautiful!"  they  heard  her  voice  exclaim  from  outside. 

In  the  room,  Julia  laid  her  hand  gently,  protectively  over 
the  hand  of  Cyril  Scott. 

"Josephine  and  Robert  are  admiring  the  night  together!" 
she  said,  smiling  with  subtle  tenderness  to  him. 

"Naturally!  Young  people  always  do  these  romantic 
things,"  replied  Cyril  Scott.  He  was  twenty-two  years  old, 
so  he  could  afford  to  be  cynical. 

"Do  they?— Don't  you  think  it's  nice  of  them?"  she  said, 


"THE  LIGHTED  TREE"  37 

gently  removing  her  hand  from  his.  His  eyes  were  shining 
with  pleasure. 

"I  do.  I  envy  them  enormously.  One  only  needs  to  be 
sufficiently  naive,"  he  said. 

"One  does,  doesn't  one!"  cooed  Julia. 

"I  say,  do  you  hear  the  bells?"  said  Robert,  poking  his 
head  into  the  room. 

"No,  dear!    Do  you?"  replied  Julia. 

"Bells!  Hear  the  bells!  Bells!"  exclaimed  the  half -tipsy 
and  self-conscious  Jim.  And  he  rolled  in  his  chair  in  an  ex- 
plosion of  sudden,  silent  laughter,  showing  his  mouthful  of 
pointed  teeth,  like  a  dog.  Then  he  gradually  gathered  himself 
together,  found  his  feet,  smiling  fixedly. 

"Pretty  cool  night! "  he  said  aloud,  when  he  felt  the  air  on 
his  almost  bald  head.    The  darkness  smelt  of  sulphur. 

Josephine  and  Robert  had  moved  out  of  sight.  Julia  was 
abstracted,  following  them  with  her  eyes.  With  almost  super- 
natural keenness  she  seemed  to  catch  their  voices  from  the 
distance. 

"Yes,  Josephine,  wouldn't  that  be  awfully  romantic!" — she 
suddenly  called  shrilly. 

The  pair  in  the  distance  started. 

"What — !"  they  heard  Josephine's  sharp  exclamation. 

"What's  that? — ^What  would  be  romantic?"  said  Jim  as  he 
lurched  up  and  caught  hold  of  Cyril  Scott's  arm. 

"Josephine  wants  to  make  a  great  illumination  of  the 
grounds  of  the  estate,"  said  Julia,  magniloquent. 

"No — no — I  didn't  say  it,"  remonstrated  Josephine. 

"What  Josephine  said,"  explained  Robert,  "was  simply  that 
it  would  be  pretty  to  put  candles  on  one  of  the  growing  trees, 
instead  of  having  a  Christmas-tree  indoors." 

"Oh,  Josephine,  how  sweet  of  you! "  cried  Julia. 

Cyril  Scott  giggled. 

"Good  egg!  Champion  idea,  Josey,  my  lass.  Eh? 
What-—! *'  cried  Jim.  "Why  not  carry  it  out — eh?  Why  not? 
Most  attractive."  He  leaned  forward  over  Josephine,  and 
grinned. 


38  AARON'S  ROD 

"Oh,  no!"  expostulated  Josephine.  "It  all  sounds  so  silly 
now.    No     Let  us  go  indoors  and  go  to  bed." 

"iVo,  Josephine  dear — No!  It's  a  lovely  idea!"  cried  Julia. 
"I^t's  get  candles  and  lanterns  and  things — " 

"Let's!"  grinned  Jim.    "Let's,  everybody— let's." 

"Shall  we  really?"  asked  Robert.  "Shall  we  illuminate  one 
of  the  fir-trees  by  the  lawn?" 

"Yes!    How  lovely!"  cried  Julia.    "I'll  fetch  the  candles." 

"The  women  must  put  on  warm  cloaks/'  said  Robert. 

They  trooped  indoors  for  coats  and  wraps  and  candles  and 
lanterns.  Then,  lighted  by  a  bicycle  lamp,  they  trooped  off 
to  the  shed  to  twist  wire  round  the  candles  for  holders.  They 
clustered  round  the  bench. 

"I  say,"  said  Julia,  "doesn't  Cyril  look  like  a  pilot  on  a 
stormy  night!  Oh,  I  say — !"  and  she  went  into  one  of  her 
hurried  laughs. 

They  all  looked  at  Cyril  Scott,  who  was  standing  sheepishly 
in  the  background,  in  a  very  large  overcoat,  smoking  a  large 
pipe.  The  young  man  was  uncomfortable,  but  assumed  a  stoic 
air  of  philosophic  indifference. 

Soon  they  were  busy  round  a  prickly  fir-tree  at  the  end 
of  the  lawn.  Jim  stood  in  the  background  vaguely  staring. 
The  bicycle  lamp  sent  a  beam  of  strong  white  light  deep  into 
the  uncanny  foliage,  heads  clustered  and  hands  worked.  The 
night  above  was  silent,  dim.  There  was  no  wind.  In  the 
near  distance  they  could  hear  the  panting  of  some  engine  at 
the  colliery. 

"Shall  we  light  them  as  we  fix  them,"  asked  Robert,  "or 
save  them  for  one  grand  rocket  at  the  end?" 

"Oh,  as  we  do  them,"  said  Cyril  Scott,  who  had  lacerated 
his  fingers  and  wanted  to  see  some  reward. 

A  match  spluttered.  One  naked  little  flame  sprang  alight 
among  the  dark  foliage.  The  candle  burned  tremulously, 
naked.    They  all  were  silent. 

"We  ought  to  do  a  ritual  dance!  We  ought  to  worship  the 
tree,"  sang  Julia,  in  her  high  voice. 

"Hold  on  a  minute.  We'll  have  a  little  more  illumination," 
said  Robert. 


"THE  LIGHTED  TREE"  39 

"Why  yes.  We  want  more  than  one  candle,"  said 
Josephine. 

But  Julia  had  dropped  the  cloak  in  which  she  was  huddled, 
and  with  arms  slung  asunder  was  sliding,  waving,  crouching 
in  a  pas  seul  before  the  tree,  looking  like  an  animated  bough 
herself. 

Jim,  who  was  hugging  his  pipe  in  the  background,  broke 
into  a  short,  harsh,  cackling  laugh. 

"Aren't  we  fools!  "he  cried.  "What?  Oh,  God's  love,  aren't 
we  fools!" 

"No — ^why?"  cried  Josephine,  amused  but  resentful. 

But  Jim  vouchsafed  nothing  further,  only  stood  like  a  Red 
Indian  gripping  his  pipe. 

The  beam  of  the  bicycle-lamp  moved  and  fell  upon  the 
hands  and  faces  of  the  young  people,  and  penetrated  the  re- 
cesses of  the  secret  trees.  Several  little  tongues  of  flame 
clipped  sensitive  and  ruddy  on  the  naked  air,  sending  a  faint 
glow  over  the  needle  foliage.  They  gave  a  strange,  perpen- 
dicular aspiration  in  the  night.  Julia  waved  slowly  in  her 
tree  dance.  Jim  stood  apart,  with  his  legs  straddled,  a  motion- 
less figure. 

The  party  round  the  tree  became  absorbed  and  excited  as 
more  ruddy  tongues  of  flame  pricked  upward  from  the  dark 
tree.  Pale  candles  became  evident,  the  air  was  luminous. 
The  illumination  was  becoming  complete,  harmonious. 

Josephine  suddenly  looked  round. 

"Why-y-yl"  came  her  long  note  of  alarm. 

A  man  in  a  bowler  hat  and  a  black  overcoat  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  twilight. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Julia. 

**Homo  sapiens  r  said  Robert,  the  lieutenant.  "Hand  the 
light,  Cjnril."  He  played  the  beam  of  light  full  on  the  in- 
truder; a  man  in  a  bowler  hat,  with  a  black  overcoat  buttoned 
to  his  throat,  a  pale,  dazed,  blinking  face.  The  hat  was  tilted 
at  a  slightly  jaunty  angle  over  the  left  eye,  the  man  was  well- 
featured.    He  did  not  speak. 

"Did  you  want  anything?"  asked  Robert,  from  behind  the 
light. 


40  AARON'S  ROD 

Aaron  Sisson  blinked,  trying  to  see  who  addressed  him.  To 
him,  they  were  all  illusory.    He  did  not  answer. 

"Anything  you  wanted?"  repeated  Robert,  military,  rather 
peremptory. 

Jim  suddenly  doubled  himself  up  and  burst  into  a  loud 
harsh  cackle  of  laughter.  Whoop!  he  went,  and  doubled  him- 
self up  with  laughter.  Whoop!  Whoop!  he  went,  and  fell 
on  the  ground  and  writhed  with  laughter.  He  was  in  that 
state  of  intoxication  when  he  could  find  no  release  from  mad- 
dening self-consciousness.  He  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he 
did  it  deliberately.  And  yet  he  was  also  beside  himself,  in 
a  sort  of  hysterics.  He  could  not  help  himself  in  exasperated 
self-consciousness. 

The  others  all  began  to  laugh,  unavoidably.  It  was  a 
contagion.  They  laughed  helplessly  and  foolishly.  Only 
Robert  was  anxious. 

"I'm  afraid  he'll  wake  the  house,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
doubled  up  figure  of  Jim  writhing  on  the  grass  and  whooping 
loudly, 

"No — ^no!"  cried  Josephine,  weak  with  laughing  in  spite 
of  herself.    "No —  it's  too  long — I'm  like  to  die  laughing — " 

Jim  embraced  the  earth  in  his  convulsions.  Even  Robert 
shook  quite  weakly  with  laughter.  His  face  was  red,  his  eyes 
full  of  dancing  water.    Yet  he  managed  to  articulate. 

"I  say,  you  know,  you'll  bring  the  old  man  down."  Then 
he  went  off  again  into  spasms. 

"Hu!    Hu!"whooped  Jim,  subsiding.    "Hu!" 

He  rolled  over  on  to  his  back,  and  lay  silent.  The  others 
also  became  weakly  silent. 

"What's  amiss?"  said  Aaron  Sisson,  breaking  this  spell. 

They  all  began  to  laugh  again,  except  Jim,  who  lay  on 
his  back  looking  up  at  the  strange  sky. 

"What're  you  laughing  at?"  repeated  Aaron. 

"We're  laughing  at  the  man  on  the  ground,"  replied 
Josephine.    "I  think  he's  drunk  a  little  too  much." 

"Or  not  enough,"  put  in  Cyril  Scott.  He  twigged  Jim's 
condition. 

"Ay,"  said  Aaron,  standing  mute  and  obstinate. 


"THE  LIGHTED  TREE"  41 

"Did  you  want  anything?"  Robert  enquired  once  more. 

"Eh?"  Aaron  looked  up.  "Me?  No,  not  me."  A  sort 
of  inertia  kept  him  rooted.  The  young  people  looked  at  one 
another  and  began  to  laugh,  rather  embarrassed. 

"Another!"  said  Cyril  Scott  cynically. 

They  wished  he  would  go  away.    There  was  a  pause. 

"What  do  you  reckon  stars  are?"  asked  the  sepulchral  voice 
of  Jim.    He  still  lay  flat  on  his  back  on  the  grass. 

Josephine  went  to  him  and  pulled  at  his  coat. 

"Get  up,"  she  said.  "You'll  take  cold.  Get  up  now,  we^re 
going  indoors." 

"What  do  you  reckon  stars  are?"  he  persisted. 

Aaron  Sisson  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  light,  smilingly  staring 
at  the  scene,  like  a  boy  out  of  his  place,  but  stubbornly  keep- 
ing his  ground. 

"Get  up  now,"  said  Josephine.  "WeVe  had  enough."  But 
Jim  would  not  move. 

Robert  went  with  the  bicycle  lamp  and  stood  at  Aaron^s 
side. 

"Shall  I  show  you  a  light  to  the  road — you're  off  your 
track,"  he  said.    "You're  in  the  grounds  of  Shottle  House.'* 

"I  can  find  my  road,"  said  Aaron.    "Thank  you." 

Jim  suddenly  got  up  and  went  to  peer  at  the  stranger, 
poking  his  face  close  to  Aaron's  face. 

"Right-o,"  he  replied.  "You're  not  half  a  bad  sort  of  chap 
— Cheery-o!    What's  your  drink?" 

"Mine — ^whiskey,"  said  Aaron. 

"Come  in  and  have  one.  We're  the  only  sober  couple  in 
the  bunch — ^what?"  cried  Jim. 

Aaron  stood  unmoving,  static  in  everything.  Jim  took  him 
by  the  arm  affectionately.  The  stranger  looked  at  the  flicker- 
ing tree,  with  its  tiers  of  lights. 

"A  Christmas  tree,"  he  said,  jerking  his  head  and  smiling. 

"That's  right,  old  man,"  said  Jim,  seeming  thoroughly  sober 
now.    "Come  indoors  and  have  a  drink." 

Aaron  Sisson  negatively  allowed  himself  to  be  led  off.  The 
others  followed  in  silence,  leaving  the  tree  to  flicker  the  night 
through.    The  stranger  stumbled  at  the  open  window-door. 


42  AARON'S  ROD 

"Mind  the  step,"  said  Jim  affectionately. 

They  crowded  to  the  fire,  which  was  still  hot.  The  new- 
comer looked  round  vaguely.  Jim  took  his  bowler  hat  and 
gave  him  a  chair.  He  sat  without  looking  round,  a  remote, 
abstract  look  on  his  face.  He  was  very  pale,  and  seemed 
inwardly  absorbed. 

The  party  threw  off  their  wraps  and  sat  around.  Josephine 
turned  to  Aaron  Sisson,  who  sat  with  a  glass  of  whiskey  in 
his  hand,  rather  slack  in  his  chair,  in  his  thickish  overcoat. 
He  did  not  want  to  drink.  His  hair  was  blond,  quite  tidy, 
his  mouth  and  chin  handsome  but  a  little  obstinate,  his  eyes 
inscrutable.  His  pallor  was  not  natural  to  him.  Though  he 
kept  the  appearance  of  a  smile,  underneath  he  was  hard  and 
opposed.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  with  these  people,  and  yet, 
mechanically,  he  stayed. 

"Do  you  feel  quite  well?"  Josephine  asked  him. 

He  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"Me?"  he  said.  He  smiled  faintly.  "Yes,  I'm  all  right." 
Then  he  dropped  his  head  again  and  seemed  oblivious. 

"Tell  us  your  name,"  said  Jim  affectionately. 

The  stranger  looked  up. 

"My  name's  Aaron  Sisson,  if  it's  anything  to  you,"  he  said. 

Jim  began  to  grin. 

"It's  a  name  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  Then  he  named  all 
the  party  present.  But  the  stranger  hardly  heeded,  though  his 
eyes  looked  curiously  from  one  to  the  other,  slow,  shrewd, 
clairvoyant. 

"Were  you  on  your  way  home?"  asked  Robert,  huffy. 

The  stranger  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  him. 

"Home!  "he  repeated.  "No.  The  other  road— "  He  indi- 
cated the  direction  with  his  head,  and  smiled  faintly. 

"Beldover?"  inquired  Robert. 

"Yes." 

He  had  dropped  his  head  again,  as  if  he  did  not  want  to 
look  at  them. 

To  Josephine,  the  pale,  impassive,  blank-seeming  face,  the 
blue  eyes  with  the  smile  which  wasn't  a  smile,  and  the  con- 


^'THE  LIGHTED  TREE"  43 

tinual  dropping  of  the  well-shaped  head  was  curiously  affect- 
ing.   She  wanted  to  cry. 

"Are  you  a  miner?"  Robert  asked,  de  haute  en  bas, 

"No,"  cried  Josephine.    She  had  looked  at  his  hands. 

"Men's  checkweighman,"  replied  Aaron.  He  had  emptied 
his  glass.    He  put  it  on  the  table. 

"Have  another?"  said  Jim,  who  was  attending  fixedly,  with 
curious  absorption,  to  the  stranger. 

"No,"  cried  Josephine,  "no  more." 

Aaron  looked  at  Jim,  then  at  her,  and  smiled  slowly,  with 
remote  bitterness.  Then  he  lowered  his  head  again.  His 
hands  were  loosely  clasped  between  his  knees. 

"What  about  the  wife?"  said  Robert — the  young  lieutenant. 

"What  about  the  wife  and  kiddies?  You're  a  married  man, 
aren't  you?" 

The  sardonic  look  of  the  stranger  rested  on  the  subaltern. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Won't  they  be  expecting  you?"  said  Robert,  trying  to 
keep  his  temper  and  his  tone  of  authority. 

"I  expect  they  will — " 

"Then  you'd  better  be  getting  along,  hadn't  you?" 

The  eyes  of  the  intruder  rested  all  the  time  on  the  flushed 
subaltern.    The  look  on  Aaron's  face  became  slowly  satirical. 

"Oh,  dry  up  the  army  touch,"  said  Jim  contemptuously,  to 
Robert.  "We're  all  civvies  here.  We're  all  right,  aren't  we?", 
he  said  loudly,  turning  to  the  stranger  with  a  grin  that  shbwed 
his  pointed  teeth. 

Aaron  gave  a  brief  laugh  of  acknowledgement. 

"How  many  children  have  you?"  sang  Julia  from  her 
distance. 

"Three." 

"Girls  or  boys?" 

"Girls." 

"All  girls?    Dear  little  things!    How  old?" 

"Oldest  eight — ^youngest  nine  months — " 

"So  small!"  sang  Julia,  with  real  tenderness  now — ^Aaron 
dropped  his  head. 


44  AARON'S  ROD 

"But  you're  going  home  to  them,  aren't  you?"  said 
Josephine,  in  whose  eyes  the  tears  had  already  risen.  He 
looked  up  at  her,  at  her  tears.  His  face  had  the  same  pale 
perverse  smile. 

"Not  tonight,"  he  said. 

"But  why?    You're  wrong! "  cried  Josephine. 

He  dropped  his  head  and  became  oblivious. 

"Well!"  said  Cyril  Scott,  rising  at  last  with  a  bored  ex- 
clamation.   "I  think  I'll  retire." 

"Will  you?"  said  Julia,  also  rising.  "You'll  find  your  candle 
outside." 

She  went  out.  Scott  bade  good  night,  and  followed  her. 
The  four  people  remained  in  the  room,  quite  silent.  Then 
Robert  rose  and  began  to  walk  about,  agitated. 

"Don't  you  go  back  to  'em.  Have  a  night  out.  You  stop 
here  tonight,"  Jim  said  suddenly,  in  a  quiet  intimate  tone. 

The  stranger  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  him,  considering. 

"Yes?"  he  said.    He  seemed  to  be  smiling  coldly. 

"Oh,  but! "  cried  Josephine.  "Your  wife  and  your  children! 
Won't  they  be  awfully  bothered?  Isn't  it  awfully  unkind  to 
them?" 

She  rose  in  her  eagerness.  He  sat  turning  up  his  face  to 
her.    She  could  not  understand  his  expression. 

"Won't  you  go  home  to  them?"  she  said,  hysterical. 

"Not  tonight,"  he  replied  quietly,  again  smiling. 

"You're  wrong!"  she  cried.  "You're  wrong!"  And  so  she 
hurried  out  of  the  room  in  tears. 

"Er — ^what  bed  do  you  propose  to  put  him  in?"  asked 
Robert  rather  officer-like. 

"Don't  propose  at  all,  my  lad,"  replied  Jim,  ironically — ^he 
did  not  like  Robert.    Then  to  the  stranger  he  said: 

"You'll  be  all  right  on  the  couch  in  my  room? — it's  a  good 
couch,  big  enough,  plenty  of  rugs — "  His  voice  was  easy  and 
intimate. 

Aaron  looked  at  him,  and  nodded. 

They  had  another  drink  each,  and  at  last  the  two  set  off, 
rather  stumbling,  upstairs.  Aaron  carried  his  bowler  hat  with 
him. 


"THE  LIGHTED  TREE"  45 

Robert  remained  pacing  in  the  drawing-room  for  some  time. 
Then  he  went  out,  to  return  in  a  little  while.  He  extinguished 
the  lamps  and  saw  that  the  fire  was  safe.  Then  he  went  to 
fasten  the  window-doors  securely.  Outside  he  saw  the  un- 
canny glimmer  of  candles  across  the  lawn.  He  had  half  a 
mind  to  go  out  and  extinguish  them — but  he  did  not.  So  he 
went  upstairs  and  the  house  was  quiet.  Faint  crumbs  of  snow 
were  falling  outside. 

When  Jim  woke  in  the  morning  Aaron  had  gone.  Only  on 
the  floor  were  two  packets  of  Christmas-tree  candles,  fallen 
from  the  stranger's  pockets.  He  had  gone  through  the  draw- 
ing-room door,  as  he  had  come.  The  housemaid  said  that 
while  she  was  cleaning  the  grate  in  the  dining-room  she  heard 
someone  go  into  the  drawing-room:  a  parlour-maid  had  even 
seen  someone  come  out  of  Jim's  bedroom.  But  they  had  both 
thought  it  was  Jim  himself,  for  he  was  an  unsettled  house 
mate. 

There  was  a  thin  film  of  snow,  a  lovely  Christmas  morning. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"the  pillar  of  salt" 

Our  story  will  not  yet  see  daylight.  A  few  days  after 
Christmas,  Aaron  sat  in  the  open  shed  at  the  bottom  of  his 
own  garden,  looking  out  on  the  rainy  darkness.  No  one  knew 
he  was  there.    It  was  some  time  after  six  in  the  evening. 

From  where  he  sat,  he  looked  straight  up  the  garden  to  the 
house.  The  bHnd  was  not  drawn  in  the  middle  kitchen,  he 
could  see  the  figures  of  his  wife  and  one  child.  There  was  a 
light  also  in  the  upstairs  window.  His  wife  was  gone  upstairs 
again.  He  wondered  if  she  had  the  baby  ill.  He  could  see 
her  figure  vaguely  behind  the  lace  curtains  of  the  bedroom. 
It  was  like  looking  at  his  home  through  the  wrong  end  of  a 
telescope.  Now  the  little  girls  had  gone  from  the  middle 
room:  only  to  return  in  a  moment. 

His  attention  strayed.  He  watched  the  light  falling  from 
the  window  of  the  next-door  house.  Uneasily,  he  looked  along 
the  whole  range  of  houses.  The  street  sloped  down-hill,  and 
the  backs  were  open  to  the  fields.  So  he  saw  a  curious  succes- 
sion of  lighted  windows,  between  which  jutted  the  intermedi- 
ary back  premises,  scullery  and  outhouse,  in  dark  little  blocks. 
It  was  something  like  the  keyboard  of  a  piano:  more  still,  like 
a  succession  of  musical  notes.  For  the  rectangular  planes  of 
light  were  of  different  intensities,  some  bright  and  keen,  some 
soft,  warm,  like  candle-light,  and  there  was  one  surface  of 
pure  red  light,  one  or  two  were  almost  invisible,  dark  green. 
So  the  long  scale  of  lights  seemed  to  trill  across  the  darkness, 
now  bright,  now  dim,  swelling  and  sinking.  The  effect  was 
strange. 

And  thus  the  whole  private  life  of  the  street  was  threaded 
in  lights.  There  was  a  sense  of  indecent  exposure,  from  so 
many  backs.    He  felt  himself  almost  in  physical  contact  with 

46 


"THE  PILLAR  OF  SALT"  47 

this  contiguous  stretch  of  back  premises.  He  heard  the 
familiar  sound  of  water  gushing  from  the  sink  in  to  the  grate, 
the  dropping  of  a  pail  outside  the  door,  the  clink  of  a  coal 
shovel,  the  banging  of  a  door,  the  sound  of  voices.  So  many 
houses  cheek  by  jowl,  so  many  squirming  lives,  so  many  back 
yards,  back  doors  giving  on  to  the  night.    It  was  revolting. 

Away  in  the  street  itself,  a  boy  was  calling  the  newspaper: 
"-ning  Post!  -ning  Po-o-st!"  It  was  a  long,  melancholy 
howl,  and  seemed  to  epitomise  the  whole  of  the  dark,  wet, 
secretive,  thickly-inhabited  night.  A  figure  passed  the  window 
of  Aaron's  own  house,  entered,  and  stood  inside  the  room  talk- 
ing to  Mrs.  Sisson.  It  was  a  young  woman  in  a  brown 
mackintosh  and  a  black  hat.  She  stood  under  the  incandescent 
light,  and  her  hat  nearly  knocked  the  globe.  Next  door  a  man 
had  run  out  in  his  shirt  sleeves:  this  time  a  young,  dark- 
headed  collier  running  to  the  gate  for  a  newspaper,  running 
bare-headed,  coatlesss,  slippered  in  the  rain.  He  had  got  his 
news-sheet,  and  was  returning.  And  just  at  that  moment  the 
young  man's  wife  came  out,  shading  her  candle  with  a  lading 
tin.  She  was  going  to  the  coal-house  for  some  coal.  Her 
husband  passed  her  on  the  threshold.  She  could  be  heard 
breaking  the  bits  of  coal  and  placing  them  on  the  dustpan. 
The  light  from  her  candle  fell  faintly  behind  her.  Then  she 
went  back,  blown  by  a  swirl  of  wind.  But  again  she  was  at 
the  door,  hastily  standing  her  iron  shovel  against  the  wall. 
Then  she  shut  the  back  door  with  a  bang.  These  noises  seemed 
to  scrape  and  strike  the  night. 

In  Aaron's  own  house,  the  young  person  was  still  talking 
to  Mrs.  Sisson.  Millicent  came  out,  sheltering  a  candle  with 
her  hand.  The  candle  blew  out.  She  ran  indoors,  and  emerged 
again,  her  white  pinafore  fluttering.  This  time  she  performed 
her  little  journey  safely.  He  could  see  the  faint  glimmer  of 
her  candle  emerging  secretly  from  the  closet. 

The  young  person  was  taking  her  leave.  He  could  hear 
her  sympathetic — "Well — good  night!  I  hope  she'll  be  no 
worse.  Good  night  Mrs  Sisson!"  She  was  gone — he  heard 
the  windy  bang  of  the  street-gate.  Presently  Millicent 
emerged  again,  flitting  indoors. 


48  AARON'S  ROD 

So  he  rose  to  his  feet,  balancing,  swaying  a  little  before  he 
started  into  motion,  as  so  many  colliers  do.  Then  he  moved 
along  the  path  towards  the  house,  in  the  rain  and  darkness, 
very  slowly  edging  forwards. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened.  His  wife  emerged  with  a  pail. 
He  stepped  quietly  aside,  on  to  his  side  garden,  among  the 
sweet  herbs.  He  could  smell  rosemary  and  sage  and  hyssop. 
A  low  wall  divided  his  garden  from  his  neighbour's.  He  put 
his  hand  on  it,  oh  its  wetness,  ready  to  drop  over  should  his 
wife  come  forward.  But  she  only  threw  the  contents  of  her 
pail  on  the  garden  and  retired  again.  She  might  have  seen 
him  had  she  looked.  He  remained  standing  where  he  was, 
listening  to  the  trickle  of  rain  in  the  water-butt.  The  hollow 
countryside  lay  beyond  him.  Sometimes  in  the  windy  dark- 
ness he  could  see  the  red  burn  of  New  Brunswick  bank,  or  the 
brilliant  jewels  of  light  clustered  at  Bestwood  Colliery.  Away 
in  the  dark  hollow,  nearer,  the  glare  of  the  electric  power- 
station  disturbed  the  night.  So  again  the  wind  swirled  the 
rain  across  all  these  hieroglyphs  of  the  countryside,  familiar 
to  him  as  his  own  breast. 

A  motor-car  was  labouring  up  the  hill.  His  trained  ear  at- 
tended to  it  unconsciously.  It  stopped  with  a  jar.  There  was 
a  bang  of  the  yard-gate.  A  shortish  dark  figure  in  a  bowler 
hat  passed  the  window.  Millicent  was  drawing  down  the 
blind.  It  was  the  doctor.  The  blind  was  drawn,  he  could  see 
no  more. 

Stealthily  he  began  to  approach  the  house.  He  stood  by 
the  climbing  rose  of  the  porch,  listening.  He  heard  voices  up- 
stairs. Perhaps  the  children  would  be  downstairs.  He  lis- 
tened intently.  Voices  were  upstairs  only.  He  quietly  opened 
the  door.  The  room  was  empty,  save  for  the  baby,  who  was 
cooing  in  her  cradle.  He  crossed  to  the  hall.  At  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  he  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  Indian  doctor:  "Now 
little  girl,  you  must  just  keep  still  and  warm  in  bed,  and  not 
cry  for  the  moon."  He  said  "Je  moon,"  just  as  ever. — 
Marjory  must  be  ill. 

So  Aaron  quietly  entered  the  parlour.  It  was  a  cold, 
clammy  room,  dark.    He  could  hear  footsteps  passing  outside 


"THE  PILLAR  OF  SALT"  49 

on  the  asphalt  pavement  below  the  window,  and  the  wind 
howling  with  familiar  cadence.  He  began  feeling  for  some- 
thing in  the  darkness  of  the  music-rack  beside  the  piano.  He 
touched  and  felt — ^he  could  not  find  what  he  wanted.  Per- 
plexed, he  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Through 
the  iron  railing  of  the  front  wall  he  could  see  the  little  motor- 
car sending  its  straight  beams  of  light  in  front  of  it,  up  the 
street. 

He  sat  down  on  the  sofa  by  the  window.  The  energy  had 
suddenly  left  all  his  limbs.  He  sat  with  his  head  sunk,  listen- 
ing. The  familiar  room,  the  familiar  voice  of  his  wife  and 
his  children — he  felt  weak  as  if  he  were  dying.  He  felt  weak 
like  a  drowning  man  who  acquiesces  in  the  waters.  His 
strength  was  gone,  he  was  sinking  back.  He  would  sink  back 
to  it  all,  float  henceforth  like  a  drowned  man. 

So  he  heard  voices  coming  nearer  from  upstairs,  feet  moving. 
They  were  coming  down. 

"No,  Mrs  Sisson,  you  needn't  worry,"  he  heard  the  voice 
of  the  doctor  on  the  stairs.  "If  she  goes  on  as  she  is,  she'll 
be  all  right.  Only  she  must  be  kept  warm  and  quiet — warm 
and  quiet — that's  the  chief  thing." 

"Oh,  when  she  has  those  bouts  I  can't  bear  it,"  Aaron 
heard  his  wife's  voice. 

They  were  downstairs.  Their  feet  click-clicked  on  the  tiled 
passage.  They  had  gone  into  the  middle  room.  Aaron  sat 
and  Hstened. 

"She  won't  have  any  more  bouts.  If  she  does,  give  her  a 
few  drops  from  the  little  bottle,  and  raise  her  up.  But  she 
won't  have  any  more,"  the  doctor  said. 

"If  she  does,  I  s'll  go  off  my  head,  I  know  I  shall." 

"No,  you  won't.  No,  you  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort. 
You  won't  go  off  your  head.  You'll  keep  your  head  on  your 
shoulders,  where  it  ought  to  be,"  protested  the  doctor. 

"But  it  nearly  drives  me  mad." 

"Then  don't  let  it.  The  child  won't  die,  I  tell  you.  She 
will  be  all  right,  with  care.  Who  have  you  got  sitting  up  with 
her?  You're  not  to  sit  up  with  her  tonight,  I  tell  you.  Do 
you  hear  me?" 


50  AARON'S  ROD 

"Miss  Smitham^s  coming  in.  But  it's  no  good — I  shall 
have  to  sit  up.    I  shall  have  to." 

"I  tell  you  you  won't.  You  obey  me,  I  know  what's  good 
for  you  as  well  as  for  her.  I  am  thinking  of  you  as  much  as 
of  her." 

"But  I  can't  bear  it — all  alone."  This  was  the  beginning 
of  tears.  There  was  a  dead  silence — then  a  sound  of  Milli- 
cent  weeping  with  her  mother.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  doctor 
was  weeping  too,  for  he  was  an  emotional  sympathetic  soul, 
over  forty. 

"Never  mind — never  mind — ^you  aren't  alone,"  came  the 
doctor's  matter-of-fact  voice,  after  a  loud  nose-blowing.  "I 
am  here  to  help  you.  I  will  do  whatever  I  can — ^whatever  I 
can." 

"I  can't  bear  it.    I  can't  bear  it,"  wept  the  woman. 

Another  silence,  another  nose-blowing,  and  again  the  doctor: 

"You'll  have  to  bear  it — I  tell  you  there's  nothing  else  for 
it.  You'll  have  to  bear  it — but  we'll  do  our  best  for  you.  I 
will  do  my  best  for  you — always — always — in  sickness  or  out 
of  sickness — ^There!"  He  pronounced  there  oddly,  not  quiet 
dhere, 

"You  haven't  heard  from  your  husband?"  he  added. 

"I  had  a  letter — " — sobs —  "from  the  bank  this  morning." 

"From  de  hankV 

"Telling  me  they  were  sending  me  so  much  per  month,  from 
him,  as  an  allowance,  and  that  he  was  quite  well,  but  he  was 
travelling." 

"Well  then,  why  not  let  him  travel?    You  can  live." 

"But  to  leave  me  alone"  there  was  burning  indignation  in 
her  voice.  "To  go  off  and  leave  me  with  every  responsibility, 
to  leave  me  with  all  the  burden." 

"Well  I  wouldn't  trouble  about  him.  Aren't  you  better  off 
without  him?" 

"I  am.  I  am,"  she  cried  fiercely.  "When  I  got  that  letter 
this  morning,  I  said  May  evil  befall  you,  you  selfish  demon. 
And  I  hope  it  may." 

"Well-well,  well-well,  don't  fret.  Don't  be  angry,  it  won't 
make  it  any  better,  I  tell  you." 


"THE  PILLAR  OF  SALT"  51 

"Angry  I  I  am  angry.  I*m  worse  than  angry.  A  week 
ago  I  hadn't  a  grey  hair  in  my  head.  Now  look  here — " 
There  was  a  pause. 

"Well-well,  well-well,  never  mind.  You  will  be  all  right, 
don't  you  bother.    Your  hair  is  beautiful  anyhow." 

"What  makes  me  so  mad  is  that  he  should  go  off  like  that — 
never  a  word — coolly  takes  his  hook.  I  could  kill  him  for 
it." 

"Were  you  ever  happy  together?" 

"We  were  all  right  at  first.  I  know  I  was  fond  of  him.  But 
he'd  kill  anything. — ^He  kept  himself  back,  always  kept  him- 
self back,  couldn't  give  himself — " 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Ah  well,"  sighed  the  doctor.  "Marriage  is  a  mystery.  I'm 
glad  I'm  not  entangled  in  it." 

"Yes,  to  make  some  woman's  life  a  misery. — ^I'm  sure  it  was 
death  to  live  with  him,  he  seemed  to  kill  everything  off  inside 
you.  He  was  a  man  you  couldn't  quarrel  with,  and  get  it 
over.  Quiet — quiet  in  his  tempers,  and  selfish  through  and 
through.  I've  lived  with  him  twelve  years — I  know  what  it  is. 
Killing!    You  don't  know  what  he  was — " 

"I  think  I  knew  him.  A  fair  man?  Yes?"  said  the 
doctor. 

"Fair  to  look  at. — ^There's  a  photograph  of  him  in  the 
parlour — taken  when  he  was  married — and  one  of  me. — ^Yes, 
he's  fairhaired." 

Aaron  guessed  that  she  was  getting  a  candle  to  come  into 
the  parlour.  He  was  tempted  to  wait  and  meet  them — and 
accept  it  all  again.  Devilishly  tempted,  he  was.  Then  he 
thought  of  her  voice,  and  his  heart  went  cold.  Quick  as 
thought,  he  obeyed  his  first  impulse.  He  felt  behind  the  couch, 
on  the  floor  where  the  curtains  fell.  Yes — the  bag  was  there. 
He  took  it  at  once.  In  the  next  breath  he  stepped  out  of  the 
room  and  tip-toed  into  the  passage.  He  retreated  to  the  far 
end,  near  the  street  door,  and  stood  behind  the  coats  that 
hung  on  the  hall-stand. 

At  that  moment  his  wife  came  into  the  passage,  holding  a 
candle.    She  was  red-eyed  with  weeping,  and  looked  frail. 


52  AARON'S  ROD 

"Did  you  leave  the  parlour  door  open?"  she  asked  of  Mill!- 
cent,  suspiciously. 

"No,"  said  Millicent  from  the  kitchen. 

ITie  doctor,  with  his  soft.  Oriental  tread  followed  Mrs. 
Sisson  into  the  parlour.  Aaron  saw  his  wife  hold  up  the 
candle  before  his  portrait  and  begin  to  weep.  But  he  knew 
her.  The  doctor  laid  his  hand  softly  on  her  arm,  and  left  it 
there,  sympathetically.  Nor  did  he  remove  it  when  Millicent 
stole  into  the  room,  looking  very  woe-begone  and  important. 
The  wife  wept  silently,  and  the  child  joined  in. 

"Yes,  I  know  him,"  said  the  doctor.  "If  he  thinks  he  will 
be  happier  when  he's  gone  away,  you  must  be  happier  too, 
Mrs.  Sisson.  That's  all.  Don't  let  him  triumph  over  you 
by  making  you  miserable.  You  enjoy  yourself  as  well.  You're 
only  a  girl " 

But  a  tear  came  from  his  eye,  and  he  blew  his  nose  vigorous- 
ly on  a  large  white  silk  handkerchief,  and  began  to  polish  his 
pince  nez.  Then  he  turned,  and  they  all  bundled  out  of  the 
room. 

The  doctor  took  his  departure.  Mrs.  Sisson  went  almost 
immediately  upstairs,  and  Millicent  shortly  crept  after  her. 
Then  Aaron,  who  had  stood  motionless  as  if  turned  to  a 
pillar  of  salt,  went  quietly  down  the  passage  and  into  the 
living  room.  His  face  was  very  pale,  ghastly-looking.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the  mirror  over  the  mantel,  as 
he  passed,  and  felt  weak,  as  if  he  were  really  a  criminal.  But 
his  heart  did  not  relax,  nevertheless.  So  he  hurried  into  the 
night,  down  the  garden,  climbed  the  fence  into  the  field,  and 
went  away  across  the  field  in  the  rain,  towards  the  high- 
road. 

He  felt  sick  in  every  fibre.  He  almost  hated  the  little 
handbag  he  carried,  which  held  his  flute  and  piccolo.  It 
seemed  a  burden  just  then — a  millstone  round  his  neck.  He 
hated  the  scene  he  had  left — and  he  hated  the  hard,  inviolable 
heart  that  stuck  unchanging  in  his  own  breast. 

Coming  to  the  high-road,  he  saw  a  tall,  luminous  tram-car 
roving  along  through  the  rain.  The  trams  ran  across  country 
from  town  to  town.    He  dared  not  board,  because  people 


"THE  PILLAR  OF  SALT"  53 

knew  him.  So  he  took  a  side  road,  and  walked  in  a  detour 
for  two  miles.  Then  he  came  out  on  the  high-road  again 
and  waited  for  a  tram-car.  The  rain  blew  on  his  face.  He 
waited  a  long  time  for  the  last  car. 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  THE  OPERA 


A  FRIEND  had  given  Josephine  Ford  a  box  at  the  opera  for 
one  evening;  our  story  continues  by  night.  The  box  was 
large  and  important,  near  the  stage.  Josephine  and  Julia 
were  there,  with  Robert  and  Jim — also  two  more  men.  The 
women  sat  in  the  front  of  the  box,  conspicuously.  They  were 
both  poor,  they  were  rather  excited.  But  they  belonged  to 
a  set  which  looked  on  social  triumphs  as  a  downfall  that  one 
allows  oneself.  The  two  men,  Lilly  and  Struthers,  were 
artists,  the  former  literary,  the  latter  a  painter.  Lilly  sat 
by  Josephine  in  the  front  of  the  box:  he  was  her  little  lion 
of  the  evening. 

Few  women  can  sit  in  the  front  of  a  big  box,  on  a  crowded 
and  full-swing  opera  night,  without  thrilling  and  dilating.  There 
is  an  intoxication  in  being  thus  thrust  forward,  conspicuous 
and  enhanced,  right  in  the  eye  of  the  vast  crowd  that  lines 
the  hollow  shell  of  the  auditorium.  Thus  even  Josephine  and 
Julia  leaned  their  elbows  and  poised  their  heads  regally,  look- 
ing condescendingly  down  upon  the  watchful  world.  They 
were  two  poor  women,  having  nothing  to  do  with  society.  Half 
bohemians. 

Josephine  was  an  artist.  In  Paris  she  was  a  friend  of  a 
very  fashionable  dressmaker  and  decorator,  master  of  mod- 
ern elegance.  Sometimes  she  designed  dresses  for  him,  and 
sometimes  she  accepted  from  him  a  commission  to  decorate 
a  room.  Usually  at  her  last  sou,  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  dis- 
pose of  costly  and  exquisite  things  for  other  people,  and  then 
be  rid  of  them. 

This  evening  her  dress  was  a  simple,  but  a  marvellously 
poised  thing  of  black  and  silver:  in  the  words  of  the  correct 
journal.    With  her  tight,  black,  bright  hair,  her  arched  brows, 

54 


AT  THE  OPERA  55 

her  dusky-ruddy  face  and  her  bare  shoulders;  her  strange 
equanimity,  her  long,  slow,  slanting  looks;  she  looked  foreign 
and  frightening,  clear  as  a  cameo,  but  dark,  far  off.  Julia 
was  the  English  beauty,  in  a  lovely  blue  dress.  Her  hair  was 
becomingly  untidy  on  her  low  brow,  her  dark  blue  eyes  wan- 
dered and  got  excited,  her  nervous  mouth  twitched.  Her 
high-pitched,  sing-song  voice  and  her  hurried  laugh  could  be 
heard  in  the  theatre.  She  twisted  a  beautiful  little  fan  that 
a  dead  artist  had  given  her. 

Not  being  fashionable,  they  were  in  the  box  when  the 
overture  began.  The  opera  was  Verdi — Aida.  If  it  is  im- 
possible to  be  in  an  important  box  at  the  opera  without  ex- 
periencing the  strange  intoxication  of  social  pre-eminence, 
it  is  just  as  impossible  to  be  there  without  some  feeling  of 
horror  at  the  sight  the  stage  presents. 

Josephine  leaned  her  elbow  and  looked  down:  she  knew 
how  arresting  that  proud,  rather  stiff  bend  of  her  head  was. 
She  had  some  aboriginal  American  in  her  blood.  But  as  she 
looked,  she  pursed  her  mouth.  The  artist  in  her  forgot 
everything,  she  was  filled  with  disgust.  The  sham  Egypt  of 
Aida  hid  from  her  nothing  of  its  shame.  The  singers  were 
all  colour-washed,  deliberately  colour-washed  to  a  bright 
orange  tint.  The  men  had  oblong  dabs  of  black  wool  under 
their  lower  lip;  the  beard  of  the  mighty  Pharaohs.  This 
oblong  dab  shook  and  wagged  to  the  singing. 

The  vulgar  bodies  of  the  fleshy  women  were  unendurable. 
They  all  looked  such  good  meat.  Why  were  their  haunches 
so  prominent?  It  was  a  question  Josephine  could  not  solve. 
She  scanned  their  really  expensive,  brilliant  clothing.  It 
was  nearly  right — nearly  splendid.  It  only  lacked  that  last 
subtlety  which  the  world  always  lacks,  the  last  final  clinching 
which  puts  calm  into  a  sea  of  fabric,  and  yet  is  the  opposite 
pole  to  machine  fixity. 

But  the  leading  tenor  was  the  chief  pain.  He  was  large, 
stout,  swathed  in  a  cummerbund,  and  looked  like  a  eunuch. 
This  fattish,  emasculated  look  seems  common  in  stage  heroes 
— even  the  extremely  popular.  The  tenor  sang  bravely,  his 
mouth  made  a  large,  coffin-shaped,  yawning  gap  in  his  orange 


56  AARON'S  ROD 

face,  his  little  beard  fluttered  oddly,  like  a  tail.  He  turned 
up  his  eyes  to  Josephine's  box  as  he  sang — that  being  the 
regulation  direction.  Meanwhile  his  abdomen  shook  as  he 
caught  his  breath,  the  flesh  of  his  fat,  naked  arms  swayed. 

Josephine  looked  down  with  the  fixed  gravity  of  a  Red 
Indian,  immovable,  inscrutable.  It  was  not  till  the  scene 
was  ended  that  she  lifted  her  head  as  if  breaking  a  spell, 
sent  the  point  of  her  tongue  rapidly  over  her  dried  lips,  and 
looked  round  into  the  box.  Her  brown  eyes  expressed  shame, 
fear,  and  disgust.  A  curious  grimace  went  over  her  face — 
a  grimace  only  to  be  expressed  by  the  exclamation  Merdef 
But  she  was  mortally  afraid  of  society,  and  its  fixed  insti- 
tutions. Rapidly  she  scanned  the  eyes  of  her  friends  in  the 
box.    She  rested  on  the  eyes  of  Lilly,  a  dark,  ugly  man. 

"Isn't  it  nasty?"  she  said. 

"You  shouldn't  look  so  closely,"  he  said.  But  he  took 
it  calmly,  easily,  whilst  she  felt  floods  of  burning  disgust,  a 
longing  to  destroy  it  all. 

"Oh-ho-ho!"  laughed  Julia.    "It's  so  fu-nny — so  funny!" 

"Of  course  we  are  too  near,"  said  Robert. 

"Say  you  admire  that  pink  fondant  over  there,"  said 
Struthers,  indicating  with  his  eyebrows  a  blond  large  woman 
in  white  satin  with  pink  edging,  who  sat  in  a  box  opposite, 
on  the  upper  tier. 

"Oh,  the  fondant — exactly — the  fondant!  Yes,  I  admire 
her  immensely!     Isn't  she  exactly  it!"  sang  Julia. 

Josephine  was  scanning  the  auditorium.  So  many  myriads 
of  faces — like  beads  on  a  bead-work  pattern — all  bead-work, 
in  different  layers.  She  bowed  to  various  acquaintances — 
mostly  Americans  in  uniform,  whom  she  had  known  in  Paris. 
She  smiled  to  Lady  Cochrane,  two  boxes  off — ^Lady  Cochrane 
had  given  her  the  box.  But  she  felt  rather  coldly  towards 
her. 

The  curtain  rose,  the  opera  wound  its  slow  length  along. 
The  audience  loved  it.  They  cheered  with  mad  enthusiasm. 
Josephine  looked  down  on  the  choppy  sea  of  applause,  white 
gloves  clapping,  heads  shaking.  The  noise  was  strange  and 
rattling.    What  a  curious  multiple  object  a  theatre-audience 


AT  I'HE  OPERA  §7 

was!  It  seemed  to  have  a  million  heads,  a  million  hands,  and 
one  monstrous,  unnatural  consciousness.  The  singers  ap- 
peared before  the  curtain — the  applause  rose  up  like  clouds 
of  dust. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  too  wonderful!"  cried  Julia.  ''I  am  wild  with 
excitement.     Are  you  all  of  you?" 

"Absolutely  wild,"  said  Lilly  laconically. 

"Where  is  Scott  to-night?"  asked  Struthers. 

Julia  turned  to  him  and  gave  him  a  long,  queer  look  from 
her  dark  blue  eyes. 

"He's  in  the  country,"  she  said,  rather  enigmatic. 

"Don't  you  know,  he's  got  a  house  down  in  Dorset,"  said 
Robert,  verbally  rushing  in.  "He  wants  Julia  to  go  down  and 
stay," 

"Is  she  going?"  said  Lilly. 

"She  hasn't  decided,"  replied  Robert. 

"Oh!     What's  the  objection?"  asked  Struthers. 

"Well,  none  whatsoever,  as  far  as  can  be  seen,  except  that 
she  can't  make  up  her  mind,"  replied  Robert. 

"Julia's  got  no  mind,"  said  Jim  rudely. 

"Oh!   Hear  the  brotherly  verdict!"  laughed  Julia  hurriedly. 

"You  mean  to  go  down  to  Dorset  alone!"  said  Struthers. 

"Why  not?"  replied  Robert,  answering  for  her. 

"And  stay  how  long?" 

"Oh — as  long  as  it  lasts,"  said  Robert  again. 

"Starting  with  eternity,"  said  Lilly,  "and  working  back  to  a 
fortnight." 

"And  what's  the  matter? — looks  bad  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world?" 

"Yes — about  that.     Afraid  of  compromising  herself — " 

Lilly  looked  at  them. 

"Depends  what  you  take  the  world  to  mean.  Do  you  mean 
us  in  this  box,  or  the  crew  outside  there?"  he  jerked  his 
head  towards  the  auditorium. 

"Do  you  think,  Lilly,  that  we're  the  world?"  said  Robert 
ironically. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  guess  we're  shipwrecked  in  this  box,  like 
Robinson  Crusoes.    And  what  we  do  on  our  own  little  island 


58  AARON'S  ROD 

matters  to  us  alone.  As  for  the  infinite  crowds  of  howling 
savages  outside  there  in  the  unspeakable,  all  youVe  got  to  do 
is  mind  they  don't  scrap  you." 

"But  won't  they?"  said  Struthers. 

"Not  unless  you  put  your  head  in  their  hands,"  said  Lilly. 

"I  don't  know — "  said  Jim. 

But  the  curtain  had  risen,  they  hushed  him  into  silence. 

All  through  the  next  scene,  Julia  puzzled  herself,  as  to 
whether  she  should  go  down  to  the  country  and  live  with 
Scott.  She  had  carried  on  a  nervous  kind  of  amour  with  him, 
based  on  soul  sympathy  and  emotional  excitement.  But 
whether  to  go  and  live  with  him?  She  didn't  know  if  she 
wanted  to  or  not:  and  she  couldn't  for  her  life  find  out.  She 
was  in  that  nervous  state  when  desire  seems  to  evaporate  the 
moment  fulfilment  is  offered. 

When  the  curtain  dropped  she  turned. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  screwing  up  her  eyes,  "I  have  to 
think  of  Robert."  She  cut  the  word  in  two,  with  an  odd 
little  hitch  in  her  voice — "i?o6-ert." 

"My  dear  Julia,  can't  you  believe  that  I'm  tired  of  being 
thought  of,"  cried  Robert,  flushing. 

Julia  screwed  up  her  eyes  in  a  slow  smile,  oddly  cogitating. 

"Well,  who  am  I  to  think  of?"  she  asked. 

"Yourself,"  said  Lilly. 

"Oh,  yes  I  Why^  yes!  I  never  thought  of  that!"  She  gave 
a  hurried  little  laugh.  "But  then  it's  no  jun  to  think  about 
oneself,"  she  cried  flatly.  "I  think  about  Rob-exi,  and  Scott" 
She  screwed  up  her  eyes  and  peered  oddly  at  the  company. 

"Which  of  them  will  find  you  the  greatest  treat,"  said 
Lilly  sarcastically. 

"Anyhow,'^  interjected  Robert  nervously,  "it  will  be  some- 
thing new  for  Scott." 

"Stale  buns  for  you,  old  boy,"  said  Jim  drily. 

"I  don't  say  so.  But — "  exclaimed  the  flushed,  full-blooded 
Robert,  who  was  nothing  if  not  courteous  to  women. 

"How  long  ha'  you  been  married?     Eh?"  asked  Jim. 

"Six  years!"  sang  Julia  sweetly. 


AT  THE  OPERA  $9 

"Good  God!" 

"You  see,"  said  Robert,  "Julia  can't  decide  anything  for 
herself.  She  waits  for  someone  else  to  decide,  then  she  puts 
her  spoke  in." 

"Put  it  plainly — "  began  Struthers. 

"But  don't  you  know,  it's  no  use  putting  it  plainly,"  cried 
Julia. 

"But  do  you  want  to  be  with  Scott,  out  and  out,  or  don't 
you?"  said  Lilly. 

"Exactly!"  chimed  Robert.  "That's  the  question  for  you 
to  answer  Julia." 

"I  won't  answer  it,"  she  cried.  "Why  should  I?"  And 
she  looked  away  into  the  restless  hive  of  the  theatre.  She 
spoke  so  wildly  that  she  attracted  attention.  But  it  half 
pleased  her.    She  stared  abstractedly  down  at  the  pit. 

The  men  looked  at  one  another  in  some  comic  consternation. 

"Oh,  damn  it  all!"  said  the  long  Jim,  rising  and  stretching 
himself.  "She's  dead  nuts  on  Scott.  She's  all  over  him. 
She'd  have  eloped  with  him  weeks  ago  if  it  hadn't  been  so 
easy.  She  can't  stand  it  that  Robert  offers  to  hand  her  into 
the  taxi." 

He  gave  his  malevolent  grin  round  the  company,  then  went 
out.    He  did  not  reappear  for  the  next  scene. 

"Of  course,  if  she  loves  Scott — "  began  Struthers. 

Julia  suddenly  turned  with  wild  desperation,  and  cried: 

"I  like  him  tremendously — tre-men-dous-ly!  He  does  un- 
derstand." 

"Which  we  don't,"  said  Robert. 

Julia  smiled  her  long,  odd  smile  in  their  faces:  one  might 
almost  say  she  smiled  in  their  teeth. 

"What  do  you  think,  Josephine?"  asked  Lilly. 

Josephine  was  leaning  foward.  She  started.  Her  tongue 
went  rapidly  over  her  lips.    "Who — ?    I — ?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes." 

"I  think  Julia  should  go  with  Scott,"  said  Josephine.  "She'll 
bother  with  the  idea  till  she's  done  it.    She  loves  him,  realljr," 

"Of  course  she  does."  cried  Robert. 


6o  AARON'S  ROD 

Julia,  with  her  chin  resting  on  her  arms,  in  a  position 
which  irritated  the  neighbouring  Lady  Cochrane  sincerely,  was 
gazing  with  unseeing  eyes  down  upon  the  stalls. 

*'Well  then — "  began  Struthers.  But  the  music  struck  up 
softly.  They  were  all  rather  bored.  Struthers  kept  on  mak- 
ing small,  half  audible  remarks — which  was  bad  form,  and 
displeased  Josephine,  the  hostess  of  the  evening. 

When  the  curtain  came  down  for  the  end  of  the  act,  the 
men  got  up.  Lilly's  wife,  Tanny,  suddenly  appeared.  She  had 
come  on  after  a  dinner  engagement. 

"Would  you  like  tea  or  anything?"  Lilly  asked. 

The  women  refused.  The  men  filtered  out  on  to  the  crim- 
son and  white,  curving  corridor.  Julia,  Josephine  and  Tanny 
remained  in  the  box.  Tanny  was  soon  hitched  on  to  the  con- 
versation in  hand. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied,  "one  can't  decide  such  a  thing 
like  drinking  a  cup  of  tea." 

"Of  course,  one  can't,  dear  Tanny,"  said  Julia. 

"After  all,  one  doesn't  leave  one's  husband  every  day,  to 
go  and  live  with  another  man.  Even  if  one  looks  on  it  as 
an  experiment — ." 

"It's  difficult!"  cried  Julia.  "It's  difficult!  I  feel  they  all 
want  to  jorce  me  to  decide.    It's  cruel." 

"Oh,  men  with  their  beastly  logic,  their  either-this-or-that 
stunt,  they  are  an  awful  bore. — But  of  course,  Robert  can't 
love  you  really,  or  he'd  want  to  keep  you.  I  can  see  Lilly 
discussing  such  a  thing  for  me.  But  then  you  don't  love 
Robert  either,"  said  Tanny. 

"I  do!  Oh,  I  do,  Tanny!  I  do  love  him,  I  love  him  dearly. 
I  think  he's  beautiful.  Robert's  beautiful.  And  he  needs  me. 
And  I  need  him  too.    I  need  his  support.    Yes,  I  do  love  him." 

"But  you  like  Scott  better,"  said  Tanny. 

"Only  because  he — he's  different,"  sang  Julia,  in  long  tones. 
"You  see  Scott  has  his  art.  His  art  matters.  And  Rob-eit 
— Robert  is  a  dilettante,  don't  you  think — he's  dilettante — " 
She  screwed  up  her  eyes  at  Tanny.    Tanny  cogitated. 

"Of  course  I  don't  think  that  matters,"  she  replied. 


AT  THE  OPERA  6i 

"But  it  does,  it  matters  tremendously,  dear  Tamiy,  tremen- 
dously." 

"Of  course,"  Tanny  sheered  off.  "I  can  see  Scott  has  great 
attractions— a  great  warmth  somewhere — " 

"Exactly!"  cried  Julia.     "He  understands—" 

"And  I  believe  he's  a  real  artist.  You  might  even  work 
together.    You  might  write  his  librettos." 

"Yes! — ^Yes! — "  Julia  spoke  with  a  long,  pondering  hiss. 

"It  might  be  awjully  nice,"  said  Tanny  rapturously. 

"Yes!— It  might!— It  might—!"  pondered  Julia.  Sud- 
denly she  gave  herself  a  shake.  Then  she  laughed  hurriedly, 
as  if  breaking  from  her  line  of  thought. 

"And  wouldn't  Robert  be  an  awjully  nice  lover  for 
Josephine!  Oh,  wouldn't  that  be  splendid!"  she  cried,  with 
her  high  laugh. 

Josephine,  who  had  been  gazing  down  into  the  orchestra, 
turned  now,  flushing  darkly. 

"But  I  don't  want  a  lover,  Julia,"  she  said,  hurt. 

"Josephine  dear!  Dear  old  Josephine!  Don't  you  really! 
Oh,  yes,  you  do. — I  want  one  so  badly"  cried  Julia,  with  her 
shaking  laugh.  "Robert's  awfully  good  to  me.  But  we've 
been  married  six  years.  And  it  does  make  a  difference,  doesn't 
it,  Tanny  dear?" 

"A  great  difference,"  said  Tanny. 

"Yes,  it  makes  a  difference,  it  makes  a  difference,"  mused 
Julia.  "Dear  old  Rob-ert — I  wouldn't  hurt  him  for  worlds. 
I  wouldn't.    Do  you  think  it  would  hurt  Robert?" 

She  screwed  up  her  eyes,  looking  at  Tanny. 

"Perhaps  it  would  do  Robert  good  to  be  hurt  a  little,''  said 
Tanny.    "He's  so  well-nourished." 

"Yes! — ^Yes! — I  see  what  you  mean,  Tanny! — Poor  old 
Rob-exV.    Oh,  poor  old  Rob-ert,  he's  so  young! '^ 

"He  does  seem  young,'*  said  Tanny.  "One  doesn't  forgive 
it." 

"He  is  young,"  said  Julia.  "I'm  five  years  older  than  he. 
"He's  only  twenty-seven.     Poor  Old  Robert." 

"Robert  is  young,  and  inexperienced,'*  said  Josephine,  sud- 


62  AARON'S  ROD 

denly  turning  with  anger.  "But  I  don't  know  why  you  talk 
about  him." 

"Is  he  inexperienced,  Josephine  dear?  Is  he?"  sang  Julia. 
Josephine  flushed  darkly,  and  turned  away. 

"Ah,  he's  not  so  innocent  as  all  that,"  said  Tanny  roughly. 
"Those  young  young  men,  who  seem  so  fresh,  they're  deep 
enough,  really.  They're  far  less  innocent  really  than  men  who 
are  experienced." 

"They  are,  aren't  they,  Tanny,"  repeated  Julia  softly. 
"They're  old — older  than  the  Old  Man  of  the  Seas,  some- 
times, aren't  they?  Incredibly  old,  like  little  boys  who  know 
too  much — aren't  they?  Yes!"  She  spoke  quietly,  seriously, 
as  if  it  had  struck  her. 

Below,  the  orchestra  was  coming  in.  Josephine  was  watch- 
ing closely.    Julia  became  aware  of  this. 

"Do  you  see  anybody  we  know,  Josephine?"  she  asked. 

Josephine  started. 

"No,"  she  said,  looking  at  her  friends  quickly  and  furtively. 

"Dear  old  Josephine,  she  knows  all  sorts  of  people,"  sang 
Julia. 

At  that  moment  the  men  returned. 

"Have  you  actually  come  back!"  exclaimed  Tanny  to  them. 

They  sat  down  without  answering.  Jim  spread  himself  as 
far  as  he  could,  in  the  narrow  space.  He  stared  upwards, 
wrinkling  his  ugly,  queer  face.  It  was  evident  he  was  in 
one  of  his  moods. 

"If  only  somebody  loved  me!"  he  complained.  "If  only 
somebody  loved  me  I  should  be  all  right.  I'm  going  to  pieces." 
He  sat  up  and  peered  into  the  faces  of  the  women. 

"But  we  all  love  you,"  said  Josephine,  laughing  uneasily. 
"Why  aren't  you  satisfied?" 

"I'm  not  satisfied.    I'm  not  satisfied,"  murmured  Jim. 

"Would  you  like  to  be  wrapped  in  swaddling  bands  and 
laid  at  the  breast?"  asked  Lilly,  disagreeably. 

Jim  opened  his  mouth  in  a  grin,  and  gazed  long  and  malevo- 
lently at  his  questioner. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  Then  he  sprawled  his  long  six  foot  of  limb 
and  body  across  the  box  again. 


AT  THE  OPERA  63 

"You  should  try  loving  somebody,  for  a  change,"  said 
Tanny.  "YouVe  been  loved  too  often.  Why  not  try  and  love 
somebody?" 

Jim  eyed  her  narrowly. 

"I  couldn't  love  yoUf'  he  said,  in  vicious  tones. 

"A  la  bonne  heurel"  said  Tanny. 

But  Jim  sank  his  chin  on  his  chest,  and  repeated  obstinately: 

"I  want  to  be  loved." 

*'How  many  times  have  you  been  loved?"  Robert  asked  him. 
"It  would  be  rather  interesting  to  know." 

Jim  looked  at  Robert  long  and  slow,  but  did  not  answer. 

*'Did  you  ever  keep  count?"  Tanny  persisted. 

Jim  looked  up  at  her,  malevolent. 

*'I  believe  I  did,"  he  replied. 

"Forty  is  the  age  when  a  man  should  begin  to  reckon  up," 
said  Lilly. 

Jim  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  brandished  his  fists. 

"Ill  pitch  the  lot  of  you  over  the  bloody  rail,"  he  said. 

He  glared  at  them,  from  under  his  bald,  wrinkled  forehead. 
Josephine  glanced  round.  She  had  become  a  dusky  white 
colour.  She  was  afraid  of  him,  and  she  disliked  him  intensely 
nowadays. 

"Do  you  recognise  anyone  in  the  orchestra?"  she  asked. 

The  party  in  the  box  had  become  dead  silent.  They  looked 
down.  The  conductor  was  at  his  stand.  The  music  began. 
They  all  remained  silent  and  motionless  during  the  next  scene, 
each  thinking  his  own  thoughts.  Jim  was  uncomfortable.  He 
wanted  to  make  good.  He  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
grinning  slightly,  looking  down.  At  the  next  interval  he 
stood  up  suddenly. 

"It  is  the  chap — ^What?"  he  exclaimed  excitedly,  looking 
round  at  his  friends. 

"Who?"  said  Tanny. 

"It  is  he?"  said  Josephine  quietly,  meeting  Jim's  eye. 

"Sure!"  he  barked. 

He  was  leaning  forward  over  the  ledge,  rattling  a  programme 
in  his  hand,  as  if  trying  to  attract  attention.  Then  he  made 
signals. 


64  AARON'S  ROD 

"There  you  are!"  he  exclaimed  triumphantly.  "That's  the 
chap." 

"Who?    Who?"  they  cried. 

But  neither  Jim  nor  Josephine  would  vouchsafe  an  answer. 

The  next  was  the  long  interval.  Jim  and  Josephine  gazed 
down  at  the  orchestra.  The  musicians  were  laying  aside  their 
instruments  and  rising.  The  ugly  fire-curtain  began  slowly 
to  descend.    Jim  suddenly  bolted  out. 

"Is  it  that  man  Aaron  Sisson?"  asked  Robert. 

"Where?    Where?"  cried  Julia.    "It  can't  be." 

But  Josephine's  face  was  closed  and  silent.  She  did  not 
answer. 

The  whole  party  moved  out  on  to  the  crimson-carpeted 
gangway.  Groups  of  people  stood  about  chatting,  men  and 
women  were  passing  along,  to  pay  visits  or  to  find  drinks. 
Josephine's  party  stared  around,  talking  desultorily.  And  at 
length  they  perceived  Jim  stalking  along,  leading  Aaron  Sisson 
by  the  arm.  Jim  was  grinning,  the  flautist  looked  unwilling. 
He  had  a  comely  appearance,  in  his  white  shirt — a  certain 
comely  blondness  and  repose.  And  as  much  a  gentleman  as 
anybody. 

"Well! "  cried  Josephine  to  him.    "How  do  you  come  here?" 

"I  play  the  flute,"  he  answered,  as  he  shook  hands. 

The  little  crowd  stood  in  the  gangway  and  talked. 

"How  wonderful  of  you  to  be  here!"  cried  Julia. 

He  laughed. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  answered. 

"Yes,  I  do. — It  seems  so  jar  from  Shottle  House  and 
Christmas  Eve. — Oh,  wasn't  it  exciting!"  cried  Julia. 

Aaron  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  answer. 

"We've  heard  all  about  you,"  said  Tanny  playfully. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  replied. 

"Come!"  said  Josephine,  rather  irritated.  "We  crowd  up 
the  gangway."    And  she  led  the  way  inside  the  box. 

Aaron  stood  and  looked  down  at  the  dishevelled  theatre. 

"You  get  all  the  view,"  he  said. 

"We  do,  don't  we! "  cried  Julia. 

"More  than's  good  for  us,"  said  Lilly. 


AT  THE  OPERA  65 

"Tell  us  what  you  are  doing.  You've  got  a  permanent 
job?"  asked  Josephine. 

"Yes — at  present.'' 

"Ah!    It's  more  interesting  for  you  than  at  Beldover." 

She  had  taken  her  seat.  He  looked  down  at  her  dusky 
young  face.    Her  voice  was  always  clear  and  measured. 

"It's  a  change,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"Oh,  it  must  be  more  than  that,"  she  said.  "Why,  you 
must  feel  a  whole  difference.    It's  a  whole  new  life." 

He  smiled,  as  if  he  were  laughing  at  her  silently.  She 
flushed. 

"But  isn't  it?"  she  persisted. 

"Yes.    It  can  be,"  he  replied. 

He  looked  as  if  he  were  quietly  amused,  but  dissociated. 
None  of  the  people  in  the  box  were  quite  real  to  him.  He  was 
not  really  amused.  Julia  found  him  dull,  stupid.  Tanny  also 
was  offended  that  he  could  not  perceive  her.  The  men  re- 
mained practically  silent. 

"You're  a  chap  I  always  hoped  would  turn  up  again,"  said 
Jim. 

"Oh,  yes!"  replied  Aaron,  smiling  as  if  amused. 

"But  perhaps  he  doesn't  like  us!  Perhaps  he's  not  glad 
that  we  turned  up,"  said  Julia,  leaving  her  sting. 

The  flautist  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"You  can't  remember  us,  can  you?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "I  can  remember  you." 

"Oh,"  she  laughed.    "You  are  unflattering." 

He  was  annoyed.  He  did  not  know  what  she  was  getting 
at. 

"How  are  your  wife  and  children?"  she  asked  spitefully. 

"All  right,  I  think." 

"But  you've  been  back  to  them?"  cried  Josephine  in  dismay. 

He  looked  at  her,  a  slow,  half  smiling  look,  but  did  not 
speak. 

"Come  and  have  a  drink.  Damn  the  women,"  said  Jim 
uncouthly,  seizing  Aaron  by  the  arm  and  dragging  him  off. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TALK 

The  party  stayed  to  the  end  of  the  interminable  opera. 
They  had  agreed  to  wait  for  Aaron.  He  was  to  come  around 
to  the  vestibule  for  them,  after  the  show.  They  trooped  slowly 
down-stairs  into  the  crush  of  the  entrance  hall.  Chattering, 
swirling  people,  red  carpet,  palms  green  against  cream-and- 
gilt  walls,  small  whirlpools  of  life  at  the  open,  dark  doorways, 
men  in  opera  hats  steering  decisively  about — it  was  the  old 
scene.  But  there  were  no  taxis — absolutely  no  taxis.  And  it 
was  raining.  Fortunately  the  women  had  brought  shoes. 
They  slipped  these  on.  Jim  rocked  through  the  crowd,  in  his 
tall  hat,  looking  for  the  flautist. 

At  last  Aaron  was  found — ^wearing  a  bowler  hat.  Julia 
groaned  in  spirit.  Josephine's  brow  knitted.  Not  that  any- 
body cared,  really.  But  as  one  must  frown  at  something, 
why  not  at  the  bowler  hat?  Acquaintances  and  elegant  yoimg 
men  in  uniforms  insisted  on  rushing  up  and  bowing  and  ex- 
changing a  few  words,  either  with  Josephine,  or  Jim,  or  Julia, 
or  Lilly.  They  were  coldly  received.  The  party  veered  out 
into  the  night. 

The  women  hugged  their  wraps  about  them,  and  set  off 
sharply,  feeling  some  repugnance  for  the  wet  pavements  and 
the  crowd.  They  had  not  far  to  go — only  to  Jim's  rooms  in 
Adelphi.  Jim  was  leading  Aaron,  holding  him  by  the  arm 
and  slightly  pinching  his  muscles.  It  gave  him  great  satis- 
faction to  have  between  his  fingers  the  arm-muscles  of  a  work- 
ing-man, one  of  the  common  people,  the  fons  et  origo  of 
modem  life.  Jim  was  talking  rather  vaguely  about  Labour 
and  Robert  Smillie,  and  Bolshevism.  He  was  all  for  revolution 
and  the  -triumph  of  labour. 

So  they  arrived,  mounted  a  dark  stair,  and  entered  a  large, 
handsome  room,  one  of  the  Adams  rooms.    Jim  had  furnished 

66 


TALK  67 

it  from  Healers  with  striped  hangings,  green  and  white  and 
yellow  and  dark  purple,  and  with  a  green-and-black  checked 
carpet,  and  great  stripe-covered  chairs  and  Chesterfield.  A  big 
gas-fire  was  soon  glowing  in  the  handsome  old  fire-place,  the 
panelled  room  seemed  cosy. 

While  Jim  was  handing  round  drinks  and  sandwiches,  and 
Josephine  was  making  tea,  Robert  played  Bach  on  the  piano — 
the  pianola,  rather.  The  chairs  and  lounge  were  in  a  half- 
circle  round  the  fire.  The  party  threw  off  their  wraps  and 
sank  deep  into  this  expensive  comfort  of  modern  bohemia. 
They  needed  the  Bach  to  take  away  the  bad  taste  that  Aida 
had  left  in  their  mouths.  They  needed  the  whiskey  and  Cura- 
sao to  rouse  their  spirits.  They  needed  the  profound  comfort 
in  which  to  sink  away  from  the  world.  All  the  men,  except 
Aaron,  had  been  through  the  war  in  some  way  or  other.  But 
here  they  were,  in  the  old  setting  exactly,  the  old  bohemian 
routine. 

The  bell  rang,  Jim  went  downstairs.  He  returned  shortly 
with  a  frail,  elegant  woman — fashionable  rather  than  bohemian. 
She  was  cream  and  auburn,  Irish,  with  a  slightly-lifted  upper 
lip  that  gave  her  a  pathetic  look.  She  dropped  her  wrap  and 
sat  down  by  Julia,  taking  her  hand  delicately. 

"How  are  you,  darling?"  she  asked. 

''Yes — I'm  happy,"  said  Julia,  giving  her  odd,  screwed-up 
smile. 

The  pianola  stopped,  they  all  chatted  indiscriminately.  Jim 
was  watching  the  new-comer — Mrs.  Browning — ^with  a  con- 
centrated wolfish  grin. 

**I  like  her,"  he  said  at  last.  ''I've  seen  her  before,  haven't 
I?— I  hke  her  awfully." 

"Yes,'^  said  Josephine,  with  a  slight  grunt  of  a  laugh.  "He 
wants  to  be  loved." 

"Oh,"  cried  Clariss.    "So  do  I !  '^ 

"Then  there  you  are!"  cried  Tanny. 

"Alas,  no,  there  we  aren't,"  cried  Clariss.  She  was  beautiful 
too,  with  her  lifted  upper-lip.  "We  both  want  to  be  loved, 
and  so  we  miss  each  other  entirely.  We  run  on  in  two  parallel 
lines,  that  can  never  meet."    She  laughed  low  and  half  sad. 


68  AARON'S  ROD 

"Doesn't  she  love  you?"  said  Aaron  to  Jim  amused,  in- 
dicating Josephine.     "I  thought  you  were  engaged." 

"HerT  leered  Jim  vindictively,  glancing  at  Josephine.  "She 
doesn't  love  me." 

"Is  that  true?"  asked  Robert  hastily,  of  Josephine. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "yes.  Why  should  he  make  me  say  out 
here  that  I  don't  love  him!" 

"Got  you  my  girl,"  said  Jim. 

"Then  it's  no  engagement?"  said  Robert. 

"Listen  to  the  row  fools  make,  rushing  in,"  said  Jim 
maliciously. 

"No,  the  engagement  is  broken,"  said  Josephine. 

"World  coming  to  pieces  bit  by  bit,"  said  Lilly.  Jim  was 
twisting  in  his  chair,  and  looking  like  a  Chinese  dragon, 
diabolical.    The  room  was  uneasy. 

"What  gives  you  such  a  belly-ache  for  love,  Jim?"  said 
Lilly,  "or  for  being  loved?  Why  do  you  want  so  badly  to  be 
loved?" 

"Because  I  like  it,  damn  you,"  barked  Jim.  "Because 
I'm  in  need  of  it." 

None  of  them  quite  knew  whether  they  ought  to  take  it  as 
a  joke.    It  was  just  a  bit  too  real  to  be  quite  pleasant. 

"Why  are  you  such  a  baby?"  said  Lilly.  "There  you  are, 
six  foot  in  length,  have  been  a  cavalry  officer  and  fought  in 
two  wars,  and  you  spend  your  time  crying  for  somebody  to 
love  you.    You're  a  comic." 

"Am  I  though?"  said  Jim.  "I'm  losing  life.  I'm  getting 
thin." 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  were  losing  life,"  said  Lilly. 

"Don't  I?    lam,  though.    I'm  dying." 

"What  of?     Lack  of  life?" 

"That's  about  it,  my  young  cock.    Life's  leaving  me." 

"Better  sing  Tosti's  Farewell  to  it." 

Jim  who  had  been  sprawling  full  length  in  his  arm-chair, 
the  centre  of  interest  of  all  the  company,  suddenly  sprang  for- 
ward and  pushed  his  face,  grinning,  in  the  face  of  Lilly. 

"You're  a  funny  customer,  you  are,"  he  said. 

Then  he  turned  round  in  his  chair,  and  saw  Clariss  sitting 


TALK  69 

at  the  feet  of  Julia,  with  one  white  arm  over  her  friend^s  knee. 
Jim  immediately  stuck  forward  his  muzzle  and  gazed  at 
her.  Clariss  had  loosened  her  masses  of  thick,  auburn  hair, 
so  that  it  hung  half  free.  Her  face  was  creamy  pale,  her 
upper  lip  lifted  with  odd  pathos!  She  had  rose-rubies  in  her 
ears. 

"I  like  her,''  said  Jim.    "What^s  her  name?" 

"Mrs.  Browning.    Don't  be  so  rude,"  said  Josephine. 

"Browning  for  gravies.    Any  relation  of  Robert?" 

"Oh,  yes!  You  ask  my  husband,"  came  the  slow,  plangent 
voice  of  Clariss. 

"You've  got  a  husband,  have  you?" 

"Rather!    Haven't  I,  Juley?" 

"Yes,"  said  Julia,  vaguely  and  wi^ily.  "Yes,  dear,  you 
have." 

"And  two  fine  children,"  put  in  Robert. 

"No!  You  don't  mean  it!"  said  Jim.  "Who's  your  hus- 
band?   Anybody?" 

"Rather!"  came  the  deep  voice  of  Clariss.  "He  sees  to 
that." 

Jim  stared,  grinning,  showing  his  pointed  teeth,  reaching 
nearer  and  nearer  to  Clariss  who,  in  her  frail  scrap  of  an 
evening  dress,  amethyst  and  silver,  was  sitting  still  in  the 
deep  black  hearth-rug,  her  arm  over  Julia's  knee,  taking 
very  little  notice  of  Jim,  although  he  amused  her. 

"I  like  you  awfully,  I  say,"  he  repeated. 

"Thanks,  I'm  sure,"  she  said. 

The  others  were  laughing,  sprawling  in  their  chairs,  and 
sipping  Curasao  and  taking  a  sandwich  or  a  cigarette.  Aaron 
Sisson  alone  sat  upright,  smiling  flickeringly.  Josephine 
watched  him,  and  her  pointed  tongue  went  from  time  to  time 
over  her  lips. 

"But  I'm  sure,"  she  broke  in,  "this  isn't  very  interesting 
for  the  others.  Awfully  boring!  Don't  be  silly  all  the  time, 
Jim,  or  we  must  go  home." 

Jim  looked  at  her  with  narrowed  eyes.  He  hated  her  voice. 
She  let  her  eye  rest  on  his  for  a  moment.  Then  she  put  her 
cigarette  to  her  lips.    Robert  was  watching  them  both. 


70  AARON'S  ROD 

Josephine  took  her  cigarette  from  her  lips  again. 

"Tell  us  about  yourself,  Mr.  Sisson,"  she  said.  "How  do 
you  like  being  in  London?" 

"I  like  London,"  said  Aaron. 

Where  did  he  live?  Bloomsbury.  Did  he  know  many 
people?  No — nobody  except  a  man  in  the  orchestra.  How 
had  he  got  his  job?    Through  an  agent.    Etc.  Etc. 

"What  do  you  make  of  the  miners?"  said  Jim,  suddenly 
taking  a  new  line. 

"Me?"  said  Sisson.    "I  don't  make  anything  of  them." 

"Do  you  think  they'll  make  a  stand  against  the  govern- 
ment?" 

"What  for?" 

"Nationalisation." 

"They  might,  one  day." 

"Think  they'd  fight?" 

"Fight?" 

"Yes." 

Aaron  sat  laughing. 

"What  have  they  to  fight  for?" 

"Why,  everything!  What  haven't  they  to  fight  for?"  cried 
Josephine  fiercely.  "Freedom,  liberty,  and  escape  from  this 
vile  system.     Won't  they  fight  for  that?" 

Aaron  sat  smiling,  slowly  shaking  his  head. 

"Nay,"  he  said,  "you  mustn't  ask  me  what  they'll  do — 
I've  only  just  left  them,  for  good.  They'll  do  a  lot  of 
cavilling." 

"But  won't  they  act?'*  cried  Josephine. 

"Act?"  said  Aaron.     "How,  act?" 

"Why,  defy  the  government,  and  take  things  in  their  own 
hands,"  said  Josephine. 

"They  might,  some  time,"  said  Aaron,  rather  indifferent. 

"I  wish  they  would!"  cried  Josephine.  "My,  wouldn't  I 
love  it  if  they'd  make  a  bloody  revolution!" 

They  were  all  looking  now  at  her.  Her  black  brows  were 
twitching,  in  her  black  and  silver  dress  she  looked  like  a- 
symbol  of  young  disaster. 

"Must  it  be  bloody,  Josephine?"  said  Robert. 


TALK  7 1 

"Why,  yes.  I  don^t  believe  in  revolutions  that  aren't 
bloody,"  said  Josephine.  "Wouldn't  I  love  it!  I'd  go  in  front 
with  a  red  flag." 

"It  would  be  rather  fun,"  said  Tanny. 

"Wouldn't  it!"  cried  Josephine. 

"Oh,  Josey,  dear! "  cried  Julia  hysterically.  "Isn't  she  a  red- 
hot  Bolsher!     /  should  be  frightened." 

"No!"  cried  Josephine.    "I  should  love  it." 

"So  should  I,"  said  Jim,  in  a  luscious  sort  of  voice.  "What 
price  machine-guns  at  the  end  of  the  Strand !  That's  a,  day 
to  live  for,  what?" 

"Ha!  Ha!"  laughed  Clariss,  with  her  deep  laugh.  "We'd 
all  Bolsh  together.    I'd  give  the  cheers." 

"I  wouldn't  mind  getting  killed.  I'd  love  it,  in  a  real  fight," 
said  Josephine. 

"But,  Josephine,"  said  Robert,  "don't  you  think  we've  had 
enough  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  war?  Don't  you  think  it 
all  works  out  rather  stupid  and  unsatisfying?" 

"Ah,  but  a  civil  war  would  be  different.  I've  no  interest  in 
fighting  Germans.    But  a  civil  war  would  be  different." 

"That's  a  fact,  it  would,"  said  Jim. 

"Only  rather  worse,"  said  Robert. 

"No,  I  don't  agree,"  cried  Josephine.  "You'd  feel  you  were 
doing  something,  in  a  civil  war." 

"Pulling  the  house  down,"  said  Lilly. 

"Yes,"  she  cried.  "Don't  you  hate  it,  the  house  we  live 
in — ^London — England — ^America!     Don't  you  hate  them?" 

"I  don't  like  them.  But  I  can't  get  much  fire  in  my  hatred. 
They  pall  on  me  rather,"  said  Lilly. 

"Ay!"  said  Aaron,  suddenly  stirring  in  his  chair. 

Lilly  and  he  glanced  at  one  another  with  a  look  of  recogni- 
tion. 

"Still,"  said  Tanny,  "there's  got  to  be  a  clearance  some 
day  or  other." 

"Oh,"  drawled  Clariss.  "I'm  all  for  a  clearance.  I'm  all 
for  pulling  the  house  down.  Only  while  it  stands  I  do  want 
central  heating  and  a  good  cook." 

"May  I  come  to  dinner?"  said  Jim. 


72  AARON'S  ROD 

"Oh,  yes.    You'd  find  it  rather  domestic." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Rather  far  out  now — Amersham." 

"Amersham?     Where's   that—?" 

"Oh,  it's  on  the  map." 

There  was  a  little  lull.  Jim  gulped  down  a  drink,  standing 
at  the  sideboard.  He  was  a  tall,  fine,  soldierly  figure,  and 
his  face,  with  its  little  sandy  moustache  and  bald  forehead, 
was  odd.    Aaron  Sisson  sat  watching  him,  unconsciously. 

"Hello  you!"  said  Jim.    "Have  one?" 

Aaron  shook  his  head,  and  Jim  did  not  press  him.  It  saved 
the  drinks. 

"You  believe  in  love,  don't  you?"  said  Jim,  sitting  down 
near  Aaron,  and  grinning  at  him. 

"Love!"  said  Aaron. 

*^ Love  I  he  says,"  mocked  Jim,  grinning  at  the  company. 

"What  about  it,  then?"  asked  Aaron. 

"It's  life!     Love  is  life,"  said  Jim  fiercely. 

"It's  a  vice,  like  drink,"  said  Lilly. 

"Eh?    A  vice!"  said  Jim.    "May  be  for  you,  old  bird." 

"More  so  still  for  you,"  said  Lilly. 

"It's  life.  It's  life!"  reiterated  Jim.  "Don't  you  agree?" 
He  turned  wolfishly  to  Clariss. 

"Oh,  yes — every  time — "  she  drawled,  nonchalant. 

"Here,  let's  write  it  down,"  said  Lilly.  He  found  a  blue 
pencil  and  printed  in  large  letters  on  the  old  creamy  marble  of 
the  mantel-piece  panel:— LOVE  IS  LIFE. 

Julia  suddenly  rose  and  flung  her  arms  asunder  wildly. 

"Oh,  I  hate  love.    I  hate  it,"  she  protested. 

Jim  watched  her  sardonically. 

"Look  at  her!"  he  said.    "Look  at  Lesbia  who  hates  love." 

"No,  but  perhaps  it  is  a  disease.  Perhaps  we  are  all  wrong, 
and  we  can't  love  properly,"  put  in  Josephine. 

"Have  another  try,"  said  Jim, — ^"I  know  what  love  is.  I've 
thought  about  it.    Love  is  the  soul's  respiration.'* 

"Let's  have  that  down,"  said  Lilly. 

Love  is  the  soul's  respiration.  He  printed  it  on  the  old 
mantel-piece. 


TALK  73 

Jim  eyed  the  letters. 

"It's  right,"  he  said.  "Quite  right.  When  you  love,  your 
soul  breathes  in.    If  you  don't  breathe  in,  you  suffocate." 

"What  about  breathing  out?"  said  Robert.  "If  you  don't 
breathe  out,  you  asphyxiate." 

"Right  you  are.  Mock  Turtle — "  said  Jim  maliciously. 

"Breathing  out  is  a  bloody  revolution,"  said  Lilly. 

"YouVe  hit  the  nail  on  the  head,"  said  Jim  solemnly. 

"Let's  record  it  then,"  said  Lilly.  And  with  the  blue  pencil 
he  printed: — 

When  you  love,  your  soul  breathes  in — 

When  your  soul  breathes  out,  it's  a  bloody  revolu- 
tion. 

"I  say  Jim,"  he  said.  "You  must  be  busting  yourself,  try- 
ing to  breathe  in." 

"Don't  you  be  too  clever.  I've  thought  about  it,"  said  Jim. 
"When  I'm  in  love,  I  get  a  great  inrush  of  energy.  I  actually 
feel  it  rush  in — ^here!"  He  poked  his  finger  on  the  pit  of 
his  stomach.  "It's  the  soul's  expansion.  And  if  I  can't  get 
these  rushes  of  energy,  I'm  dying,  and  I  know  I  am." 

He  spoke  the  last  words  with  sudden  ferocity  and 
desperation. 

"All  /  know  is,''  said  Tanny,  "you  don't  look  it." 

"I  am.  I  am."  Jim  protested.  "I'm  dying.  Life's  leav- 
ing me." 

"Maybe  you're  choking  with  love,"  said  Robert.  "Perhaps 
you  have  breathed  in  so  much,  you  don't  know  how  to  let  it 
go  again.  Perhaps  your  soul's  got  a  crick  in  it,  with  expand- 
ing so  much." 

"You're  a  bloody  young  sucking  pig,  you  are,"  said  Jim. 

"Even  at  that  age,  I've  learned  my  manners,"  replied 
Robert. 

Jim  looked  round  the  party.  Then  he  turned  to  Aaron 
Sisson. 

"What  do  you  make  of  'em,  eh?"  he  said. 

Aaron  shook  his  head,  and  laughed. 

"Me?"  he  said. 

But  Jim  did  not  wait  for  an  answer. 


74  AARON'S  ROD 

"I've  had  enough,"  said  Tanny  suddenly  rising.  "I  think 
you're  all  silly.    Besides,  it's  getting  late." 

"She!"  said  Jim,  rising  and  pointing  luridly  to  Clariss. 
''She's  Love.  And  he's  the  Working  People.  The  hope  is  in 
these  two — "  He  jerked  a  thumb  at  Aaron  Sisson,  after 
having  indicated  Mrs.  Browning. 

"Oh,  how  awfully  interesting.  It's  quite  a  long  time  since 
I've  been  a  personification. — ^I  suppose  you've  never  been  one 
before?"  said  Clariss,  turning  to  Aaron  in  conclusion. 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  have,"  he  answered. 

"I  hope  personification  is  right. — Ought  to  be  allegory  or 
something  else?"    This  from  Clariss  to  Robert. 

"Or  a  parable,  Clariss,"  laughed  the  young  lieutenant. 

"Goodbye,"  said  Tanny.    "I've  been  awfully  bored." 

"Have  you?"  grinned  Jim.  "Goodbye!  Better  luck  next 
time." 

We'd  better  look  sharp,"  said  Robert,  "if  we  want  to  get 
the  tube." 

The  party  hurried  through  the  rainy  narrow  streets  down 
to  the  Embankment  station.  Robert  and  Julia  and  Clariss 
were  going  west,  Lilly  and  his  wife  were  going  to  Hampstead, 
Josephine  and  Aaron  Sisson  were  going  both  to  Bloomsbury. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Robert,  on  the  stairs — "Mr.  Sisson  will 
see  you  to  your  door,  Josephine.    He  lives  your  way." 

"There's  no  need  at  all,"  said  Josephine. 

The  four  who  were  going  north  went  down  to  the  low  tube 
level.  It  was  nearly  the  last  train.  The  station  was  half 
deserted,  half  rowdy,  several  fellows  were  drunk,  shouting 
and  crowing.  Down  there  in  the  bowels  of  London,  after 
midnight,  everything  seemed  horrible  and  unnatural. 

"How  I  hate  this  London,"  said  Tanny.  She  was  half 
Norwegian,  and  had  spent  a  large  part  of  her  life  in  Norway, 
before  she  married  Lilly. 

"Yes,  so  do  I,"  said  Josephine.  "But  if  one  must  earn 
one's  living  one  must  stay  here.  I  wish  I  could  get  back  to 
Paris.  But  there's  nothing  doing  for  me  in  France. — ^When 
do  you  go  back  into  the  country,  both  of  you?" 

"Friday,"  said  Lilly. 


TALK  75 

"How  lovely  for  you! — And  when  will  you  go  to  Norway, 
Tanny?" 

"In  about  a  month,"  said  Tanny. 

"You  must  be  awfully  pleased." 

"Oh — thankful — thankful  to  get  out  of  England — " 

"I  know.  That^s  how  I  feel.  Everything  is  so  awful — so 
dismal  and  dreary,  I  find  it — " 

They  crowded  into  the  train.  Men  were  still  yelling  like 
wild  beasts — others  were  asleep — soldiers  were  singing. 

"Have  you  really  broken  your  engagement  with  Jim?" 
shrilled  Tanny  in  a  high  voice,  as  the  train  roared. 

"Yes,  he's  impossible,"  said  Josephine.  "Perfectly  hysterical 
and  impossible." 

"And  selfish — "  cried  Tanny. 

"Oh  terribly — "  cried  Josephine. 

"Come  up  to  Hampstead  to  lunch  with  us,"  said  Lilly  to 
Aaron. 

"Ay — thank  you,"  said  Aaron. 

Lilly  scribbled  directions  on  a  card.  The  hot,  jaded  mid- 
night underground  rattled  on.  Aaron  and  Josephine  got  down 
to  change  trains. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  DARK  SQUARE  GARDEN 

Josephine  had  invited  Aaron  Sisson  to  dinner  at  a 
restaurant  in  Soho,  one  Sunday  evening.  They  had  a  corner 
to  themselves,  and  with  a  bottle  of  Burgundy  she  was  getting 
his  history  from  him. 

His  father  had  been  a  shaft-sinker,  earning  good  money, 
but  had  been  killed  by  a  fall  down  the  shaft  when  Aaron  was 
only  four  years  old.  The  widow  had  opened  a  shop:  Aaron 
was  her  only  child.  She  had  done  well  in  her  shop.  She  had 
wanted  Aaron  to  be  a  schoolteacher.  He  had  served  three 
years  apprenticeship,  then  suddenly  thrown  it  up  and  gone  to 
the  pit. 

"But  why?"  said  Josephine. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you.    I  felt  more  like  it." 

He  had  a  curious  quality  of  an  intelligent,  almost  sophisti- 
cated mind,  which  had  repudiated  education.  On  purpose  he 
kept  the  midland  accent  in  his  speech.  He  understood  per- 
fectly what  a  personification  was — and  an  allegory.  But  he 
preferred  to  be  illiterate. 

Josephine  found  out  what  a  miner^s  checkweighman  was. 
She  tried  to  find  out  what  sort  of  wife  Aaron  had — ^but, 
except  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  publican  and  was 
delicate  in  health,  she  could  learn  nothing. 

"And  do  you  send  her  money!"  she  asked. 

"Ay,"  said  Aaron.  "The  house  is  mine.  And  I  allow  her 
so  much  a  week  out  of  the  money  in  the  bank.  My  mother 
left  me  a  bit  over  a  thousand  when  she  died." 

"You  don't  mind  what  I  say,  do  you?"  said  Josephine. 

"No  I  don't  mind,"  he  laughed. 

He  had  this  pleasant-seeming  courteous  manner.  But  he 
really  kept  her  at  a  distance.    In  some  things  he  reminded 

76 


THE  DARK  SQUARE  GARDEN  77 

her  of  Robert:  blond,  erect,  nicely  built,  fresh  and  English- 
seeming.  But  there  was  a  curious  cold  distance  to  him, 
which  she  could  not  get  across.  An  inward  indifference  to 
her — ^perhaps  to  everything.    Yet  his  laugh  was  so  handsome. 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  you  left  your  wife  and  children? — 
Didn't  you  love  them?" 

Aaron  looked  at  the  odd,  round,  dark  muzzle  of  the  girl. 
She  had  had  her  hair  bobbed,  and  it  hung  in  odd  dark  folds, 
very  black,  over  her  ears. 

"Why  I  left  her?"  he  said.  "For  no  particular  reason. 
They're  all  right  without  me." 

Josephine  watched  his  face.  She  saw  a  pallor  of  suffering 
under  its  freshness,  and  a  strange  tension  in  his  eyes. 

"But  you  couldn't  leave  your  little  girls  for  no  reason  at 
all—" 

"Yes,  I  did.  For  no  reason — except  I  wanted  to  have  some 
free  room  round  me — to  loose  myself — " 

"You  mean  you  wanted  love?"  flashed  Josephine,  thinking 
he  said  lose. 

"No,  I  wanted  fresh  air.  I  don't  know  what  I  wanted.  Why 
should  I  know?" 

"But  we  must  know:  especially  when  other  people  will  be 
hiu:t,"  said  she. 

"Ah,  well!  A  breath  of  fresh  air,  by  myself.  I  felt  forced 
to  feel — I  feel  if  I  go  back  home  now,  I  shall  be  forced — forced 
to  love— or  care — or  something." 

"Perhaps  you  wanted  more  than  your  wife  could  give  you," 
she  said. 

"Perhaps  less.  She's  made  up  her  mind  she  loves  me,  and 
she's  not  going  to  let  me  off." 

"Did  you  never  love  her?"  said  Josephine. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  shall  never  love  anybody  else.  But  I'm  damned 
if  I  want  to  be  a  lover  any  more.  To  her  or  to  anybody. 
That's  the  top  and  bottom  of  it.  I  don't  want  to  care,  when 
care  isn't  in  me.    And  I'm  not  going  to  be  forced  to  it." 

The  fat,  aproned  French  waiter  was  hovering  near.  Jose- 
phine let  him  remove  the  plates  and  the  empty  bottle. 

"Have  more  wine,"  she  said  to  Aaron.    "Do?" 


78  AARON'S  ROD 

But  he  refused.  She  liked  him  because  of  his  dead-level 
indifference  to  his  surroundings.  French  waiters  and  foreign 
food — he  noticed  them  in  his  quick,  amiable-looking  fashion — 
but  he  was  indifferent.  Josephine  was  piqued.  She  wanted 
to  pierce  this  amiable  aloofness  of  his. 

She  ordered  coffee  and  brandies. 

"But  you  don't  want  to  get  away  from  everything,  do  you? 
I  myself  feel  so  lost  sometimes — so  dreadfully  alone:  not  in 
a  silly  sentimental  fashion,  because  men  keep  telling  me  they 
love  me,  don't  you  know.  But  my  life  seems  alone,  for  some 
reason — " 

"Haven't  you  got  relations?"  he  said. 

"No  one,  now  mother  is  dead.  Nothing  nearer  than  aunts 
and  cousins  in  America.  I  suppose  I  shall  see  them  all  again 
one  day.    But  they  hardly  count  over  here." 

"Why  don't  you  get  married?"  he  said.    "How  old  are  you?" 

"I'm  twenty-five.    How  old  are  you?" 

"Thirty-three." 

"You  might  almost  be  any  age. — I  don't  know  why  I  don't 
get  married.  In  a  way,  I  hate  earning  my  own  living — ^yet  I 
go  on — and  I  like  my  work — " 

"What  are  you  doing  now?" 

"I'm  painting  scenery  for  a  new  play — ^rather  fun — ^I  enjoy 
it.    But  I  often  wonder  what  will  become  of  me." 

"In  what  way?" 

She  was  almost  affronted. 

"What  becomes  of  me?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  And  it  doesn't 
matter,  not  to  anybody  but  myself." 

"What  becomes  of  anybody,  anyhow?  We  live  till  we  die. 
What  do  you  want?" 

"Why,  I  keep  saying  I  want  to  get  married  and  feel  sure  of 
something.  But  I  don't  know — I  feel  dreadful  sometimes — 
as  if  every  minute  would  be  the  last.  I  keep  going  on  and  on — 
I  don't  know  what  for — and  It  keeps  going  on  and  on — good- 
ness knows  what  it's  all  for." 

"You  shouldn't  bother  yourself,"  he  said.  "You  should 
just  let  it  go  on  and  on — " 


THE  DARK  SQUARE  GARDEN        79 

"But  I  must  bother,"  she  said.    "I  must  think  and  feel — " 

"YouVe  no  occasion,"  he  said. 

"How — ?"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  grunting,  unhappy  laugh. 
Then  she  lit  a  cigarette. 

"No,"  she  said.  "What  I  should  really  like  more  than  any- 
thing would  be  an  end  of  the  world.  I  wish  the  world  would 
come  to  an  end." 

He  laughed,  and  poured  his  drops  of  brandy  down  his 
throat. 

"It  won^t,  for  wishing,"  he  said. 

"No,  that's  the  awful  part  of  it.  It'll  just  go  on  and  on — 
Doesn't  it  make  you  feel  you'd  go  mad?" 

He  looked  at  her  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  see  it  doesn't  concern  me,"  he  said.  "So  long  as  I 
can  float  by  myself." 

"But  are  you  satisfied!"  she  cried. 

"I  like  being  by  myself — I  hate  feeling  and  caring,  and  being 
forced  into  it.    I  want  to  be  left  alone — " 

"You  aren't  very  polite  to  your  hostess  of  the  evening," 
she  said,  laughing  a  bit  miserably. 

"Oh,  we're  all  right,"  he  said.    "You  know  what  I  mean — " 

"You  like  your  own  company?  Do  you? — Sometimes  I 
think  I'm  nothing  when  I'm  alone.  Sometimes  I  think  I 
surely  must  be  nothing — nothingness." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said.    "No.    I  only  want  to  left  alone." 

"Not  to  have  anything  to  do  with  anybody?"  she  queried 
ironically. 

"Not  to  any  extent." 

She  watched  him — and  then  she  bubbled  with  a  laugh. 

"I  think  you're  funny,"  she  said.    "You  don't  mind?" 

"No — why — It's  just  as  you  see  it. — ^Jim  Bricknell's  a  rare 
comic,  to  my  eye." 

"Oh,  him! — no,  not  actually.  He's  self-conscious  and  self- 
ish and  hysterical.    It  isn't  a  bit  funny  after  a  while." 

"I  only  know  what  I've  seen,"  said  Aaron.  "You'd  both 
of  you  like  a  bloody  revolution,  though." 


8o  AARON'S  ROD 

"Yes.    Only  when  it  came  he  wouldn't  be  there." 

"Would  you?'^ 

"Yes,  indeed  I  would.  I  would  give  everything  to  be  in  it. 
I^d  give  heaven  and  earth  for  a  great  big  upheaval — and 
then  darkness." 

"Perhaps  you'll  get  it,  when  you  die,"  said  Aaron. 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  want  to  die  and  leave  all  this  standing. 
I  hate  it  so." 

"Why  do  you?" 

"But  don't  you?" 

"No,  it  doesn't  really  bother  me." 

"It  makes  me  feel  I  can't  live." 

"I  can't  see  that." 

"But  you  always  disagree  with  one! "  said  Josephine.  "How 
do  you  like  Lilly?    What  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"He  seems  sharp,"  said  Aaron. 

"But  he's  more  than  sharp." 

"Oh,  yes!     He's  got  his  finger  in  most  pies." 

"And  doesn't  like  the  plums  in  any  of  them,"  said  Josephine 
tartly. 

"What  does  he  do?" 

"Writes — stories  and  plays." 

"And  makes  it  pay?" 

"Hardly  at  all.— They  want  us  to  go.  Shall  we?"  She 
rose  from  the  table.  The  waiter  handed  her  her  cloak,  and 
they  went  out  into  the  blowy  dark  night.  She  folded  her 
wrap  round  her,  and  hurried  forward  with  short,  sharp  steps. 
There  was  a  certain  Parisian  chic  and  mincingness  about  her, 
even  in  her  walk:  but  underneath,  a  striding,  savage  sugges- 
tion as  if  she  could  leg  it  in  great  strides,  like  some  savage 
squaw. 

Aaron  pressed  his  bowler  hat  down  on  his  brow. 

"Would  you  rather  take  a  bus?"  she  said  in  a  high  voice, 
because  of  the  wind. 

"I'd  rather  walk." 

"So  would  I." 

They  hurried  across  the  Charing  Cross  Road,  where  great 
buses  rolled  and  rocked,  crammed  with  people.     Her  heels 


THE  DARK  SQUARE  GARDEN  8i 

clicked  sharply  on  the  pavement,  as  they  walked  east.  They 
crossed  Holborn,  and  passed  the  Museum.  And  neither  of 
them  said  anything. 

When  they  came  to  the  corner,  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"Look! "  she  said.    "Don't  come  any  further:  don't  trouble." 

"I'll  walk  round  with  you:  unless  you'd  rather  not." 

"No — But  do  you  want  to  bother?" 

"It's  no  bother." 

So  they  pursued  their  way  through  the  high  wind,  and 
turned  at  last  into  the  old,  beautiful  square.  It  seemed  dark 
and  deserted,  dark  like  a  savage  wilderness  in  the  heart  of 
London.  The  wind  was  roaring  in  the  great  bare  trees  of  the 
centre,  as  if  it  were  some  wild  dark  grove  deep  in  a  forgotten 
land. 

Josephine  opened  the  gate  of  the  square  garden  with  her 
key,  and  let  it  slam  to  behind  him. 

"How  wonderful  the  wind  is!"  she  shrilled.  "Shall  we 
listen  to  it  for  a  minute?" 

She  led  him  across  the  grass  past  the  shrubs  to  the  big 
tree  in  the  centre.  There  she  climbed  up  to  a  seat.  He  sat  be- 
side her.  They  sat  in  silence,  looking  at  the  darkness.  Rain 
was  blowing  in  the  wind.  They  huddled  against  the  big  tree- 
trunk,  for  shelter,  and  watched  the  scene. 

Beyond  the  tall  shrubs  and  the  high,  heavy  railings  the  wet 
street  gleamed  silently.  The  houses  of  the  Square  rose  like  a 
cliff  on  this  inner  dark  sea,  dimly  lighted  at  occasional  windows. 
Boughs  swayed  and  sang.  A  taxi-cab  swirled  round  a  corner 
like  a  cat,  and  purred  to  a  standstill.  There  was  a  light  of  an 
open  hall  door.  But  all  far  away,  it  seemed,  unthinkably  far 
away.  Aaron  sat  still  and  watched.  He  was  frightened,  it  all 
seemed  so  sinister,  this  dark,  bristling  heart  of  London.  Wind 
boomed  and  tore  like  waves  ripping  a  shingle  beach.  The 
two  white  lights  of  the  taxi  stared  round  and  departed,  leaving 
the  coast  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  deserted,  faintly  spilled  with 
light  from  the  high  lamp.  Beyond  there,  on  the  outer  rim,  a 
policeman  passed  solidly. 

Josephine  was  weeping  steadily  all  the  time,  but  inaudibly. 
Occasionally  she  blew  her  nose  and  wiped  her  face.    But  he 


82  AARON'S  ROD 

had  not  realized.  She  hardly  realized  herself.  She  sat  near 
the  strange  man.  He  seemed  so  still  and  remote — so  fas- 
cinating. 

"Give  me  your  hand/*  she  said  to  him,  subduedly. 

He  took  her  cold  hand  in  his  warm,  living  grasp.  She  wept 
more  bitterly.     He  noticed  at  last. 

"Why  are  you  crying?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  rather  ;natter-of-fact,  through 
her  tears. 

So  he  let  her  cry,  and  said  no  more,  but  sat  with  her  cold 
hand  in  his  warm,  easy  clasp. 

"You'll  think  me  a  fool,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  why 
I  cry." 

"You  can  cry  for  nothing,  can't  you?"  he  said. 

"Why,  yes,  but  it's  not  very  sensible." 

He  laughed  shortly. 

"Sensible! "  he  said. 

"You  are  a  strange  man,"  she  said. 

But  he  took  no  notice. 

"Did  you  ever  intend  to  marry  Jim  Bricknell?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"I  can't  imagine  it,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?" 

Both  were  watching  blankly  the  roaring  night  of  mid-Lon- 
don, the  phantasmagoric  old  Bloomsbury  Square.  They  were 
still  hand  in  hand. 

"Such  as  you  shouldn't  marry,"  he  said. 

"But  why  not?    I  want  to." 

"You  think  you  do." 

"Yes  indeed  I  do." 

He  did  not  say  any  more. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  she  persisted. 

"I  don't  know—" 

And  again  he  was  silent. 

"You've  known  some  life,  haven't  you?"  he  asked. 

"Me?    Why?" 

"You  seem  to." 

Do  I?  I'm  sorry.  Do  I  seem  vicious? — No,  I'm  not  vicious. 


THE  DARK  SQUARE  GARDEN  83 

— I've  seen  some  life,  perhaps — in  Paris  mostly.     But  not 
much.    Why  do  you  ask?'' 

"I  wasn't  thinking." 

"But  what  do  you  mean?    What  are  you  thinking?" 

''Nothing.    Nothing." 

*'Don't  be  so  irritating,"  said  she. 

But  he  did  not  answer,  and  she  became  silent  also.  They 
sat  hand  in  hand. 

"Won't  you  kiss  me?"  came  her  voice  out  of  the  darkness. 

He  waited  some  moments,  then  his  voice  sounded  gently, 
half  mocking,  half  reproachful. 

"Nay!"  he  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  want  to." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed,  but  did  not  reply. 

She  sat  perfectly  still  for  some  time.  She  had  ceased  to  cry. 
In  the  darkness  her  face  was  set  and  sullen.  Sometimes  a 
spray  of  rain  blew  across  it.  She  drew  her  hand  from  his, 
and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"I'll  go  in  now,"  she  said. 

"You're  not  offended,  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"No.    Why?" 

They  stepped  down  in  the  darkness  from  their  perch. 

"I  wondered." 

She  strode  off  for  some  little  way.  Then  she  turned  and 
said: 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is  rather  insulting." 

"Nay,"  he  said.     "Not  it!     Not  it!" 

And  he  followed  her  to  the  gate. 

She  opened  with  her  key,  and  they  crossed  the  road  to  her 
door. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  turning  and  giving  him  her 
hand. 

"You'll  come  and  have  dinner  with  me — or  lunch — ^wiU 
you?    When  shall  we  make  it?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  for  certain.  I'm  very  busy  just  now. 
Ill  let  you  know." 


84  AARON'S  ROD 

A  policeman  shed  his  light  on  the  pair  of  them  as  they 
stood  on  the  step. 

"All  right,"  said  Aaron,  dropping  back,  and  she  hastily 
opened  the  big  door,  and  entered. 


CHAPTER  Vin 

A  PUNCH  IN  THE  WIND 

The  Lillys  had  a  labourer's  cottage  in  Hampshire — 
pleasant  enough.  They  were  poor.  Lilly  was  a  little,  dark, 
thin,  quick  fellow,  his  wife  was  strong  and  fair.  They  had 
known  Robert  and  Julia  for  some  years,  but  Josephine  and 
Jim  were  new  acquaintances, — fairly  new. 

One  day  in  early  spring  Lilly  had  a  telegram,  "Coming  to  see 
you  arrive  4:30 — Bricknell."  He  was  surprised,  but  he  and 
his  wife  got  the  spare  room  ready.  And  at  four  o'clock  Lilly 
went  off  to  the  station.  He  was  a  few  minutes  late,  and  saw 
Jim's  tall,  rather  elegant  figure  stalking  down  the  station 
path.  Jim  had  been  an  officer  in  the  regular  army,  and  still 
spent  hours  with  his  tailor.  But  instead  of  being  a  soldier 
he  was  a  sort  of  socialist,  and  a  red-hot  revolutionary  of  a 
very  ineffectual  sort. 

"Good  lad!"  he  exclaimed,  as  Lilly  came  up.  "Thought 
you  wouldn't  mind." 

"Not  at  all.  Let  me  carry  your  bag."  Jim  had  a  bag  and 
a  knapsack. 

"I  had  an  inspiration  this  morning,"  said  Jim.  "I  suddenly 
saw  that  if  there  was  a  man  in  England  who  could  save  me, 
it  was  you." 

"Save  you  from  what?"  asked  Lilly,  rather  abashed. 

"Eh — ?"  and  Jim  stooped,  grinning  at  the  smaller  man. 

Lilly  was  somewhat  puzzled,  but  he  had  a  certain  belief  in 
himself  as  a  saviour.  The  two  men  tramped  rather  incon- 
gruously through  the  lanes  to  the  cottage. 

Tanny  was  in  the  doorway  as  they  came  up  the  garden 
path. 

"So  nice  to  see  you!    Are  you  all  right?"  she  said. 

"A.  I."  said  Jim,  grinning.    "Nice  of  you  to  have  me." 

85 


86  AARON'S  ROD 

"Oh,  we^re  awfully  pleased." 

Jim  dropped  his  knapsack  on  the  broad  sofa. 

"I've  brought  some  food,"  he  said. 

"Have  you!  That's  sensible  of  you.  We  can't  get  a  great 
deal  here,  except  just  at  week-ends,"  said  Tanny. 

Jim  fished  out  a  pound  of  sausages  and  a  pot  of  fish  paste. 

"How  lovely  the  sausages,"  said  Tanny.  "We'll  have  them 
for  dinner  tonight — and  we'll  have  the  other  for  tea  now. 
You'd  like  a  wash?" 

But  Jim  had  already  opened  his  bag,  taken  off  his  coat,  and 
put  on  an  old  one. 

"Thanks,"  he  said. 

Lilly  made  the  tea,  and  at  length  all  sat  down. 

"Well  how  unexpected  this  is — and  how  nice,"  said  Tanny. 

"Jolly— eh?"  said  Jim. 

He  ate  rapidly,  stuffing  his  mouth  too  full. 

"How  is  everybody?"  asked  Tanny. 

All  right.  Julia's  gone  with  Cyril  Scott.  Can*t  stand 
that  fellow,  can  you?    What?" 

"Yes,  I  think  he's  rather  nice,"  said  Tanny.  "What  will 
Robert  do?" 

"Have  a  shot  at  Josephine,  apparently." 

"Really?  Is  he  in  love  with  her?  I  thought  so.  And  she 
likes  him  too,  doesn't  she?"  said  Tanny. 

"Very  likely,"  said  Jim. 

"I  suppose  you're  jealous,"  laughed  Tanny. 

"Me!"  Jim  shook  his  head.  "Not  a  bit.  Like  to  see 
the  ball  kept  rolling." 

^^What  have  you  been  doing  lately?" 

"Been  staying  a  few  days  with  my  wife." 

"No,  really!    I  can't  believe  it." 

Jim  had  a  French  wife,  who  had  divorced  him,  and  two 
children.  Now  he  was  paying  visits  to  this  wife  again:  purely 
friendly.  Tanny  did  most  of  the  talking.  Jim  excited  her, 
with  his  way  of  looking  in  her  face  and  grinning  wolfishly, 
and  at  the  same  time  asking  to  be  saved. 

After  tea,  he  wanted  to  send  telegrams,  so  Lilly  took  him 
round  to  the  village  post-office.    Telegrams  were  a  necessary 


A  PUNCH  IN  THE  WIND  87 

part  of  his  life.  He  had  to  be  suddenly  starting  off  to  keep 
sudden  appointments,  or  he  felt  he  was  a  void  in  the  at- 
mosphere. He  talked  to  Lilly  about  social  reform,  and  so  on. 
Jim's  work  in  town  was  merely  nominal.  He  spent  his  time 
wavering  about  and  going  to  various  meetings,  philandering 
and  weeping. 

Lilly  kept  in  the  back  of  his  mind  the  Saving  which  James 
had  come  to  look  for.  He  intended  to  do  his  best.  After 
dinner  the  three  sat  cosily  round  the  kitchen  fire. 

"But  what  do  you  really  think  will  happen  to  the  world?" 
Lilly  asked  Jim,  amid  much  talk. 

"What?    There's  something  big  coming,"  said  Jim. 

"Where  from?" 

"Watch  Ireland,  and  watch  Japan — they're  the  two  poles  of 
the  world,"  said  Jim. 

"I  thought  Russia  and  America,"  said  Lilly. 

"Eh?  What?  Russia  and  America!  They'll  depend  on 
Ireland  and  Japan.  I  know  it.  I've  had  a  vision  of  it.  Ireland 
on  this  side  and  Japan  on  the  other — they'll  settle  it." 

"I  don't  see  how,"  said  Lilly. 

'7  don't  see  how — But  I  had  a  vision  of  it." 

"What  sort  of  vision?" 

"Couldn't  describe  it." 

"But  you  don't  think  much  of  the  Japanese,  do  you?" 
asked  Lilly. 

"Don't  I!  Don't  I!"  said  Jim.  "What,  don't  you  think 
they're  wonderful?" 

"No.    I  think  they're  rather  unpleasant."  ^ 

"I  think  the  salvation  of  the  world  lies  with  them." 

"Funny  salvation,"  said  Lilly.  "I  think  they're  anything 
but  angels." 

"Do  you  though?    Now  that's  funny.    Why?" 

"Looking  at  them  even.  I  knew  a  Russian  doctor  who'd 
been  through  the  Russo-Japanese  war,  and  who  had  gone  a 
bit  cracked.  He  said  he  saw  the  Japs  rush  a  trench.  They 
threw  everything  away  and  flung  themselves  through  the 
Russian  fire  and  simply  dropped  in  masses.  But  those  that 
reached  the  trenches  jumped  in  with  bare  hands  on   the 


88  AARON'S  ROD 

Russians  and  tore  their  faces  apart  and  bit  their  throats  out — 
fairly  ripped  the  faces  off  the  bone. — It  had  sent  the  doctor 
a  bit  cracked.  He  said  the  wounded  were  awful, — their  faces 
torn  off  and  their  throats  mangled — and  dead  Japs  with  flesh 
between  the  teeth — God  knows  if  it's  true.  But  that's  the 
impression  the  Japanese  had  made  on  this  man. — It  had 
affected  his  mind  really." 

Jim  watched  Lilly,  and  smiled  as  if  he  were  pleased. 

"No — really — !"  he  said. 

"Anyhow  they're  more  demon  than  angel,  I  believe,"  said 
Lilly. 

"Oh,  no,  Rawdon,  but  you  always  exaggerate,"  said  Tanny. 

"Maybe,"  said  Lilly. 

"I  think  Japanese  are  fascinating — fascinating — so  quick, 
and  such  jorce  in  them — " 

"Rather! — eh?"  said  Jim,  looking  with  a  quick  smile  at 
Tanny. 

"I  think  a  Japanese  lover  would  be  marvellous,"  she  laughed 
riskily. 

"I  s'd  think  he  would,"  said  Jim,  screwing  up  his  eyes. 

"Do  you  hate  the  normal  British  as  much  as  I  do?"  she 
asked  him. 

"Hate  them!    Hate  them!"  he  said,  with  an  intimate  grin. 

"Their  beastly  virtue,"  said  she.  "And  I  believe  there's 
nobody  more  vicious  underneath." 

"Nobody!"  said  Jim. 

"But  you're  British  yourself,"  said  Lilly  to  Jim. 

"No,  I'm  Irish.  Family's  Irish — my  mother  was  a  Fitz- 
patrick." 

"Anyhow  you  live  in  England." 

"Because  they  won't  let  me  go  to  Ireland." 

The  talk  drifted.  Jim  finished  up  all  the  beer,  and  they 
prepared  to  go  to  bed.  Jim  was  a  bit  tipsy,  grinning.  He 
asked  for  bread  and  cheese  to  take  upstairs. 

"Will  you  have  supper?"  said  Lilly.  He  was  surprised,  be- 
cause Jim  had  eaten  strangely  much  at  dinner. 

"No — ^Where's  the  loaf?"  And  he  cut  himself  about  half 
of  it.    There  was  no  cheese. 


A  PUNCH  IN  THE  WIND  89 

"Bread'U  do,"  said  Jim. 

"Sit  down  and  eat  it.    Have  cocoa  with  it,"  said  Tanny. 

"No,  I  like  to  have  it  in  my  bedroom." 

"You  don't  eat  bread  in  the  night?"  said  Lilly. 

"I  do." 

"What  a  funny  thing  to  do." 

The  cottage  was  in  darkness.  The  Lillys  slept  soundly. 
Jim  woke  up  and  chewed  bread  and  slept  again.  In  the  morn- 
ing at  dawn  he  rose  and  went  downstairs.  Lilly  heard  him 
roaming  about — ^heard  the  woman  come  in  to  clean — ^heard 
them  talking.  So  he  got  up  to  look  after  his  visitor,  though 
it  was  not  seven  o'clock,  and  the  woman  was  busy. — But 
before  he  went  down,  he  heard  Jim  come  upstairs  again. 

Mrs.  Short  was  busy  in  the  kitchen  when  Lilly  went  down. 

"The  other  gentleman  have  been  down.  Sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Short.  "He  asked  me  where  the  bread  and  butter  were,  so  I 
said  should  I  cut  him  a  piece.  But  he  wouldn't  let  me  do 
it.  I  gave  him  a  knife  and  he  took  it  for  himself,  in  the 
pantry." 

"I  say,  Bricknell,"  said  Lilly  at  breakfast  time,  "why  do 
you  eat  so  much  bread?" 

"I've  got  to  feed  up.  I've  been  starved  during  this  damned 
war." 

"But  hunks  of  bread  won't  feed  you  up." 

"Gives  the  stomach  something  to  work  at,  and  prevents  it 
grinding  on  the  nerves,"  said  Jim. 

"But  surely  you  don't  want  to  keep  your  stomach  always 
full  and  heavy." 

"I  do,  my  boy.  I  do.  It  needs  keeping  solid.  I'm  losing 
life,  if  I  don't.  I  tell  you  I'm  losing  life.  Let  me  put  some- 
thing inside  me." 

"I  don't  believe  bread's  any  use." 

During  breakfast  Jim  talked  about  the  future  of  the  world. 

I  reckon  Christ's  the  finest  thing  time  has  ever  produced," 
said  he;  "and  will  remain  it." 

"But  you  don't  want  crucifixions  ad  infinitum"  said  Lilly. 

"What?    Why  not?" 

"Once  is  enough — and  have  done." 


90  AARON'S  ROD 

"Don^t  you  think  love  and  sacrifice  are  the  finest  things  in 
life?"  said  Jim,  over  his  bacon. 

"Depends  what  love,  and  what  sacrifice,"  said  Lilly.  "If 
I  really  believe  in  an  Almighty  God,  I  am  willing  to  sacrifice 
for  Him.  That  is,  I'm  willing  to  yield  my  own  personal  in- 
terest to  the  bigger  creative  interest. — But  it's  obvious 
Almighty  God  isn't  mere  Love." 

"I  think  it  is.  Love  and  only  love,"  said  Jim.  "I  think 
the  greatest  joy  is  sacrificing  oneself  to  love." 

"To  someone  you  love,  you  mean,"  said  Tanny. 

"No  I  don't.  I  don't  mean  someone  at  all.  I  mean  love — 
love — ^love.  I  sacrifice  myself  to  love.  I  reckon  that's  the 
highest  man  is  capable  of." 

"But  you  can't  sacrifice  yourself  to  an  abstract  principle," 
said  Tanny. 

"That's  just  what  you  can  do.  And  that's  the  beauty  of 
it.  Who  represents  the  principle  doesn't  matter.  Christ  is  the 
principle  of  love,"  said  Jim. 

"But  no!"  said  Tanny.  "It  must  be  more  individual.  It 
must  be  somebody  you  love,  not  abstract  love  in  itself.  How 
can  you  sacrifice  yourself  to  an  abstraction." 

"Ha,  I  think  Love  and  your  Christ  destestable,"  said 
Lilly — "a  sheer  ignominy." 

"Finest  thing  the  world  has  produced,"  said  Jim. 

"No.  A  thing  which  sets  itself  up  to  be  betrayed  I  No,  it's 
foul.  Don't  you  see  it's  the  Judas  principle  you  really  worship. 
Judas  is  the  real  hero.  But  for  Judas  the  whole  show  would 
have  been  manque." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Jim.  "Judas  was  inevitable.  I'm  not  sure 
that  Judas  wasn't  the  greatest  of  the  disciples — and  Jesus 
knew  it.    I'm  not  sure  Judas  wasn't  the  disciple  Jesus  loved." 

"Jesus  certainly  encouraged  him  in  his  Judas  tricks,"  said 
Tanny. 

Jim  grinned  knowingly  at  Lilly. 

"Then  it  was  a  nasty  combination.  And  anything  which 
turns  on  a  Judas  climax  is  a  dirty  show,  to  my  thinking.  I 
think  your  Judas  is  a  rotten,  dirty  worm,  just  a  dirty  little  self- 
conscious  sentimental  twister.    And  out  of  all  Christianity  he 


A  PUNCH  IN  THE  WIND  91 

is  the  hero  today.  When  people  say  Christ  they  mean  Judas. 
They  find  him  luscious  on  the  palate.  And  Jesus  fostered 
him — "  said  Lilly. 

"He's  a  profound  figure,  is  Judas.  It's  taken  two  thousand 
years  to  begin  to  understand  him,"  said  Jim,  pushing  the 
bread  and  marmalade  into  his  mouth. 

"A  traitor  is  a  traitor — ^no  need  to  understand  any  further. 
And  a  system  which  rests  all  its  weight  on  a  piece  of  treachery 
makes  that  treachery  not  only  inevitable  but  sacred.  That's 
why  I'm  sick  of  Christianity. — ^At  any  rate  this  modern  Christ- 
mongery." 

"The  finest  thing  the  world  has  produced,  or  ever  will 
produce — Christ  and  Judas — "  said  Jim. 

"Not  to  me,"  said  Lilly.     "Foul  combination." 

It  was  a  lovely  morning  in  early  March.  Violets  were  out, 
and  the  first  wild  anemones.  The  sun  was  quite  warm.  The 
three  were  about  to  take  out  a  picnic  lunch.  Lilly  however 
was  suffering  from  Jim's  presence. 

"Jolly  nice  here,"  said  Jim.    "Mind  if  I  stay  till  Saturday?" 

There  was  a  pause.  Lilly  felt  he  was  being  bullied,  almost 
obscenely  bullied.  Was  he  going  to  agree?  Suddenly  he 
looked  up  at  Jim. 

"I'd  rather  you  went  tomorrow,"  he  said. 

Tanny,  who  was  sitting  opposite  Jim,  dropped  her  head  in 
confusion. 

"What's  tomorrow?"  said  Jim. 

"Thursday,"  said  Lilly. 

"Thursday,"  repeated  Jim.  And  he  looked  up  and  got 
Lilly's  eye.    He  wanted  to  say  "Friday  then?" 

"Yes,  I'd  rather  you  went  Thursday,"  repeated  Lilly. 

"But  Rawdon — 1"  broke  in  Tanny,  who  was  suffering.  She 
stopped,  however. 

"We  can  walk  across  country  with  you  some  way  if  you 
like,"  said  Lilly  to  Jim.    It  was  a  sort  of  compromise. 

"Fme! "  said  Jim.    "We'll  do  that,  then." 

It  was  lovely  sunshine,  and  they  wandered  through  the 
woods.  Between  Jim  and  Tanny  was  a  sort  of  growing 
rapprochement,  which  got  on  Lilly's  nerves. 


92  AARON'S  ROD 

"What  the  hell  do  you  take  that  beastly  personal  tone  for?" 
cried  Lilly  at  Tanny,  as  the  three  sat  under  a  leafless  great 
beech-tree. 

"But  I'm  not  personal  at  all,  am  I,  Mr.  Bricknell?"  said 
Tanny. 

Jim  watched  Lilly,  and  grinned  pleasedly. 

"Why  shouldn't  you  be,  anyhow?"  he  said. 

"Yes!"  she  retorted.     "Why  not!" 

"Not  while  I'm  here.  I  loathe  the  slimy  creepy  personal 
intimacy. — Won't  you  think,  Mr.  Bricknell,  that  it's  lovely  to 
be  able  to  talk  quite  simply  to  somebody?     Oh,  it's  such  a 

relief,  after  most  people ' "  Lilly  mimicked  his  wife's  last 

speech  savagely. 

"But  I  mean  it,"  cried  Tanny.    "It  is  lovely." 

"Dirty  messing,"  said  Lilly  angrily. 

Jim  watched  the  dark,  irascible  little  man  with  amusement. 
They  rose,  and  went  to  look  for  an  inn,  and  beer.  Tanny 
still  clung  rather  stickily  to  Jim's  side. 

But  it  was  a  lovely  day,  the  first  of  all  the  days  of  spring, 
with  crocuses  and  wall-flowers  in  the  cottage  gardens,  and 
white  cocks  crowing  in  the  quiet  hamlet. 

When  they  got  back  in  the  afternoon  to  the  cottage,  they 
found  a  telegram  for  Jim.  He  let  the  Lillys  see  it — "Meet 
you  for  a  walk  on  your  return  journey  Lois."  At  once  Tanny 
wanted  to  know  all  about  Lois.  Lois  was  a  nice  girl,  well-to- 
do  middle-class,  but  also  an  actress,  and  she  would  do  any- 
thing Jim  wanted. 

"I  must  get  a  wire  to  her  to  meet  me  tomorrow,"  he  said. 
"Where  shall  I  say?" 

Lilly  produced  the  map,  and  they  decided  on  time  and 
station  at  which  Lois  coming  out  of  London,  should  meet  Jim. 
Then  the  happy  pair  could  walk  along  the  Thames  valley, 
spending  a  night  perhaps  at  Marlowe,  or  some  such  place. 

Off  went  Jim  and  Lilly  once  more  to  the  postoffice.  They 
were  quite  good  friends.  Having  so  inhospitably  fixed  the 
hour  of  departure,  Lilly  wanted  to  be  nice.  Arrived  at  the 
postoffice,  they  found  it  shut:  half -day  closing  for  the  little 
shop. 


\        A  PUNCH  IN  THE  WIND  93 

"Well,"  said  Lilly.    "We'll  go  to  the  station." 

They  proceeded  to  the  station — found  the  station-master — 
were  conducted  down  to  the  signal-box.  Lilly  naturally  hung 
back  from  people,  but  Jim  was  hob-nob  with  the  station- 
master  and  the  signal  man,  quite  officer-and-my-men  kind  of 
thing.  Lilly  sat  out  on  the  steps  of  the  signal-box,  rather 
ashamed,  while  the  long  telegram  was  shouted  over  the  tele- 
phone to  the  junction  town — first  the  young  lady  and  her 
address,  then  the  message  "Meet  me  X.  station  3:40  tomorrow 
walk  back  great  pleasure  Jim." 

Anyhow  that  was  done.  They  went  home  to  tea.  After 
tea,  as  the  evening  fell,  Lilly  suggested  a  little  stroll  in  the 
woods,  while  Tanny  prepared  the  dinner.  Jim  agreed,  and 
they  set  out.  The  two  men  wandered  through  the  trees  in 
the  dusk,  till  they  came  to  a  bank  on  the  farther  edge  of  the 
wood.    There  they  sat  down. 

And  there  Lilly  said  what  he  had  to  say.  "As  a  matter 
of  fact,"  he  said,  "it's  nothing  but  love  and  self-sacrifice  which 
makes  you  feel  yourself  losing  life." 

"You're  wrong.  Only  love  brings  it  back — and  wine.  If  I 
drink  a  bottle  of  Burgundy  I  feel  myself  restored  at  the 
middle — right  here!  I  feel  the  energy  back  again.  And  if  I 
can  fall  in  love —    But  it's  becoming  so  damned  hard — " 

"What,  to  fall  in  love?"  asked  Lilly. 

"Yes." 

"Then  why  not  leave  off  trying!  What  do  you  want  to  poke 
yourself  and  prod  yourself  into  love,  for?" 

"Becayse  I'm  dead  without  it.    I'm  dead.    I'm  dying." 

"Only  because  you  force  yourself.  If  you  drop  working 
yourself  up — " 

"I  shall  die.  I  only  live  when  I  can  fall  in  love.  Otherwise 
I'm  dying  by  inches.  Why,  man,  you  don't  know  what  it 
was  like.  I  used  to  get  the  most  grand  feelings — like  a  great 
rush  of  force,  or  light — a  great  rush — right  here,  as  I've  said, 
at  the  solar  plexus.  And  it  would  come  any  time — anywhere 
— no  matter  where  I  was.    And  then  I  was  all  right." 

"All  right  for  what? — for  making  love?" 

"Yes,  man,  I  was." 


94  AARON'S  ROD 

"And  now  you  aren't? — Oh,  well,  leave  love  alone,  as  any 
twopenny  doctor  would  tell  you." 

"No,  you're  off  it  there.  It's  nothing  technical.  Techni- 
cally I  can  make  love  as  much  as  you  like.  It's  nothing  a 
doctor  has  any  say  in.  It's  what  I  feel  inside  me.  I  feel  the 
life  going.  I  know  it's  going.  I  never  get  those  inrushes  now, 
unless  I  drink  a  jolly  lot,  or  if  I  possibly  could  fall  in  love. 
Technically,  I'm  potent  all  right — oh,  yes!" 

"You  should  leave  yourself  and  your  inrushes  alone." 

"But  you  can't.    It's  a  sort  of  ache." 

"Then  you  should  stiffen  your  backbone.  It's  your  back- 
bone that  matters.  You  shouldn't  want  to  abandon  yourself. 
You  shouldn't  want  to  fling  yourself  all  loose  into  a  woman's 
lap.  You  should  stand  by  yourself  and  learn  to  be  by  your- 
self. Why  don't  you  be  more  like  the  Japanese  you  talk 
about?  Quiet,  aloof  little  devils.  They  don't  bother  about 
being  loved.  They  keep  themselves  taut  in  their  own  selves — 
there,  at  the  bottom  of  the  spine — the  devil's  own  power 
they've  got  there." 

Jim  mused  a  bit. 

"Think  they  have?"  he  laughed.    It  seemed  comic  to  him. 

"Sure!  Look  at  them.  Why  can't  you  gather  yourself 
there?" 

"At  the  tail?" 

"Yes.  Hold  yourself  firm  there." 

Jim  broke  into  a  cackle  of  a  laugh,  and  rose.  The  two 
went  through  the  dark  woods  back  to  the  cottage.  Jim  stag- 
gered and  stumbled  like  a  drunken  man:  or  worse,  like  a  man 
with  locomotor  ataxia:  as  if  he  had  no  power  in  his  lower 
limbs. 

"Walk  there — 1"  said  Lilly,  finding  him  the  smoothest  bit 
of  the  dark  path.  But  Jim  stumbled  and  shambled,  in  a 
state  of  nauseous  weak  relaxation.  However,  they  reached  the 
cottage:  and  food  and  beer — and  Tanny,  piqued  with  curiosity 
to  know  what  the  men  had  been  saying  privately  to  each 
other. 

After  dinner  they  sat  once  more  talking  round  the  fire. 


A  PUNCH  IN  THE  WIND  95 

Lilly  sat  in  a  small  chair  facing  the  fire,  the  other  two  *n  the 
armchairs  on  either  side  the  hearth. 

"How  nice  it  will  be  for  you,  walking  with  Lois  towards 
London  tomorrow,"  gushed  Tanny  sentimentally, 

"Good  God! "  said  Lilly.  "Why  the  dickens  doesn't  he  walk 
by  himself,  without  wanting  a  woman  always  there,  to  hold 
his  hand." 

"Don't  be  so  spiteful,"  said  Tanny.  "You  see  that  you  have 
a  woman  always  there,  to  hold  your  hand." 

"My  hand  doesn't  need  holding,"  snapped  Lilly. 

"Doesn't  it!  More  than  most  men's!  But  you're  so  beastly 
ungrateful  and  mannish.  Because  I  hold  you  safe  enough  all 
the  time  you  like  to  pretend  you're  doing  it  all  yourself." 

"All  right.  Don't  drag  yourself  in,"  said  Lilly,  detesting 
his  wife  at  that  moment.  "Anyhow,"  and  he  turned  to  Jim, 
"it's  time  you'd  done  slobbering  yourself  over  a  lot  of  little 
women,  one  after  the  other." 

"Why  shouldn't  I,  if  I  like  it?"  said  Jim. 

"Yes,  why  not?"  said  Tanny. 

"Because  it  makes  a  fool  of  you.  Look  at  you,  stumbling 
and  staggering  with  no  use  in  your  legs.  I'd  be  ashamed  if  I 
were  you." 

"Would  you?"  said  Jim. 

"I  would.  And  it's  nothing  but  your  wanting  to  be  loved 
which  does  it.  A  maudlin  crying  to  be  loved,  which  makes 
your  knees  all  go  rickety." 

"Think  that's  it?"  said  Jim. 

"What  else  is  it.  You  haven't  been  here  a  day,  but  you 
must  telegraph  for  some  female  to  be  ready  to  hold  your  hand 
the  moment  you  go  away.  And  before  she  lets  go,  you'll  be 
wiring  for  another.  You  want  to  be  loved,  you  want  to  be 
loved — a  man  of  your  years.    It's  disgusting — " 

"I  don't  see  it.  I  believe  in  love — "  said  Jim,  watching 
and  grinning  oddly. 

"Bah,  love!  Messing,  that's  what  it  is.  It  wouldn't  matter 
if  it  did  you  no  harm.  But  when  you  stagger  and  stumble 
down  a  road,  out  of  sheer  sloppy  relaxation  of  your  will " 


96     .  AARON'S  ROD 

At  this  point  Jim  suddenly  sprang  from  his  chair  at  Lilly, 
and  gave  him  two  or  three  hard  blows  with  his  fists,  upon  the 
front  of  the  body.  Then  he  sat  down  in  his  own  chair  again, 
saying  sheepishly: 

"I  knew  I  should  have  to  do  it,  if  he  said  any  more." 

Lilly  sat  motionless  as  a  statue,  his  face  like  paper.  One 
of  the  blows  had  caught  him  rather  low,  so  that  he  was  almost 
winded  and  could  not  breathe.  He  sat  rigid,  paralysed  as  a 
winded  man  is.  But  he  wouldn't  let  it  be  seen.  With  all  his 
will  he  prevented  himself  from  gasping.  Only  through  his 
parted  lips  he  drew  tiny  gasps,  controlled,  nothing  revealed  to 
the  other  two.    He  hated  them  both  far  too  much. 

For  some  minutes  there  was  dead  silence,  whilst  Lilly 
silently  and  viciously  fought  for  his  breath.  Tanny  opened 
her  eyes  wide  in  a  sort  of  pleased  bewilderment,  and  Jim 
turned  his  face  aside,  and  hung  his  clasped  hands  between  his 
knees. 

"There^s  a  great  silence,  suddenly!'^  said  Tanny. 

"What  is  there  to  say?"  ejaculated  Lilly  rapidly,  with  a 
spoonful  of  breath  which  he  managed  to  compress  and  control 
into  speech.  Then  he  sat  motionless  again,  concerned  with  the 
business  of  getting  back  his  wind,  and  not  letting  the  other 
two  see. 

Jim  jerked  in  his  chair,  and  looked  round. 

"It  isn't  that  I  don't  like  the  man,"  he  said,  in  a  rather 
small  voice.  "But  I  knew  if  he  went  on  I  should  have  to 
do  it." 

To  Lilly,  rigid  and  physically  preoccupied,  there  sounded  a 
sort  of  self-consciousness  in  Jim's  voice,  as  if  the  whole  thing 
had  been  semi-deliberate.  He  detected  the  sort  of  maudlin 
deliberateness  which  goes  with  hysterics,  and  he  was  colder, 
more  icy  than  ever. 

Tanny  looked  at  Lilly,  puzzled,  bewildered,  but  still  rather 
pleased,  as  if  she  demanded  an  answer.  None  being  forth- 
coming, she  said:  * 

"Of  course,  you  mustn't  expect  to  say  all  those  things  with- 
out rousing  a  man." 


A  PUNCH  IN  THE  WIND  97 

Still  Lilly  did  not  answer.  Jim  glanced  at  him,  then  looked 
at  Tanny. 

*'It  isn't  that  I  don't  like  him,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  like 
him  better  than  any  man  I've  ever  known,  I  believe."  He 
clasped  his  hands  and  turned  aside  his  face. 

"Judas!"  flashed  through  Lilly's  mind. 

Again  Tanny  looked  for  her  husband's  answer. 

"Yes,  Rawdon,"  she  said.  "You  can't  say  the  things  you 
do  without  their  having  an  effect.  You  really  ask  for  it, 
you  know." 

"It's  no  matter."  Lilly  squeezed  the  words  out  coldly. 
"He  wanted  to  do  it,  and  he  did  it." 

A  dead  silence  ensued  now.  Tanny  looked  from  man  to 
man. 

"I  could  feel  it  coming  on  me,"  said  Jim. 

"Of  course!"  said  Tanny.  "Rawdon  doesn't  know  the 
things  he  says."  She  was  pleased  that  he  had  had  to  pay 
for  them,  for  once. 

It  takes  a  man  a  long  time  to  get  his  breath  back,  after  a 
sharp  blow  in  the  wind.  Lilly  was  managing  by  degrees.  The 
others  no  doubt  attributed  his  silence  to  deep  or  fierce 
thoughts.  It  was  nothing  of  the  kind,  merely  a  cold  struggle 
to  get  his  wind  back,  without  letting  them  know  he  was 
struggling:  and  a  sheer,  stock-stiff  hatred  of  the  pair  of  them. 

"I  like  the  man,"  said  Jim.  "Never  liked  a  man  more  than 
I  like  him."    He  spoke  as  if  with  difficulty. 

"The  man"  stuck  safely  in  Lilly's  ears. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  managed  to  say.  "It's  nothing.  I've  done 
my  talking  and  had  an  answer,  for  once." 

"Yes,  Rawdy,  you've  had  an  answer,  for  once.  •  Usually  you 
don't  get  an  answer,  you  know — and  that's  why  you  go  so 
far — in  the  things  you  say.  Now  you'll  know  how  you  make 
people  feel." 

"Quite!"  said  Lilly. 

"/  don't  feel  anything.  I  don't  mind  what  he  says,"  said 
Jim. 

"Yes,  but  he  ought  to  know  the  things  he  does  say,"  said 


98  AARON'S  ROD 

Tanny.  "He  goes  on,  without  considering  the  person  he's 
talking  to.  This  time  it's  come  back  on  him.  He  mustn't 
say  such  personal  things,  if  he's  not  going  to  risk  an 
answer." 

"I  don't  mind  what  he  says.    I  don't  mind  a  bit,"  said  Jim. 

"Nor  do  I  mind,"  said  Lilly  indifferently.  "I  say  what  I 
feel —    You  do  as  you  feel —    There's  an  end  of  it." 

A  sheepish  sort  of  silence  followed  this  speech.  It  was 
broken  by  a  sudden  laugh  from  Tanny. 

"The  things  that  happen  to  us!"  she  said,  laughing  rather 
shrilly.  "Suddenly,  like  a  thunderbolt,  we're  all  struck  into 
silence!" 

"Rum  game,  eh!"  said  Jim,  grinning. 

"Isn't  it  funny!  Isn't  life  too  funny!"  She  looked  again 
at  her  husband.  "But,  Rawdy,  you  must  admit  it  was  your 
own  fault." 

Lilly's  stiff  face  did  not  change. 

"Why  jaultr  he  said,  looking  at  her  coldly.  "What  is 
there  to  talk  about?" 

"Usually  there's  so  much,"  she  said  sarcastically. 

A  few  phrases  dribbled  out  of  the  silence.  In  vain  Jim 
tried  to  get  Lilly  to  thaw,  and  in  vain  Tanny  gave  her  digs 
at  her  husband.  Lilly's  stiff,  inscrutable  face  did  not  change, 
he  was  polite  and  aloof.    So  they  all  went  to  bed. 

In  the  morning,  the  walk  was  to  take  place,  as  arranged, 
Lilly  and  Tanny  accompanying  Jim  to  the  third  station  across 
country.  The  morning  was  lovely,  the  country  beautiful. 
Lilly  liked  the  countryside  and  enjoyed  the  walk.  But  a 
hardness  inside  himself  never  relaxed.  Jim  talked  a  little 
again  about  the  future  of  the  world,  and  a  higher  state  of 
Christlikeness  in  man.  But  Lilly  only  laughed.  Then  Tanny 
managed  to  get  ahead  with  Jim,  sticking  to  his  side  and  talk- 
ing sympathetic  personalities.  But  Lilly,  feeling  it  from  afar, 
ran  after  them  and  caught  them  up.    They  were  silent. 

"What  was  the  interesting  topic?"  he  said  cuttingly. 

"Nothing  at  all!"  said  Tanny,  nettled.  "Why  must  you 
interfere?" 

"Because  I  intend  to,"  said  Lilly. 


A  PUNCH  IN  THE  WIND  99 

And  the  two  others  fell  apart,  as  if  severed  with  a  knife. 
Jim  walked  rather  sheepishly,  as  if  cut  out. 

So  they  came  at  last  past  the  canals  to  the  wayside  station: 
and  at  last  Jim's  train  came.  They  all  said  goodbye.  Jim 
and  Tanny  were  both  waiting  for  Lilly  to  show  some  sign 
of  real  reconciliation.  But  none  came.  He  was  cheerful 
and  aloof. 

"Goodbye,"  he  said  to  Jim.  "Hope  Lois  will  be  there  all 
right.    Third  station  on.    Goodbye!    Goodbye  I" 

"You  11  come  to  Rackham?"  said  Jim,  leaning  out  of  the 
train. 

"We  should  love  to,"  called  Tanny,  after  the  receding  train. 

"All  right,"  said  Lilly,  non-committal. 

But  he  and  his  wife  never  saw  Jim  again.  Lilly  never  in- 
tended to  see  him:  a  devil  sat  in  the  little  man's  breast. 

"You  shouldn't  play  at  little  Jesus,  coming  so  near  to 
people,  wanting  to  help  them,"  was  Tanny's  last  word. 


CHAPTER  IX  ' 

LOW-WATER    MARK 

Tanny  went  away  to  Norway  to  visit  her  people,  for  the 
first  time  for  three  years.  Lilly  did  not  go:  he  did  not  want 
to.  He  came  to  London  and  settled  in  a  room  over  Covent 
Garden  market.  The  room  was  high  up,  a  fair  size,  and 
stood  at  the  corner  of  one  of  the  streets  and  the  market  itself, 
looking  down  on  the  stalls  and  the  carts  and  the  arcade. 
Lilly  would  climb  out  of  the  window  and  sit  for  hours  watch- 
ing the  behaviour  of  the  great  draught-horses  which  brought 
the  mountains  of  boxes  and  vegetables.  Funny  half-human 
creatures  they  seemed,  so  massive  and  fleshy,  yet  so  Cockney. 
There  was  one  which  could  not  bear  donkeys,  and  which 
used  to  stretch  out  its  great  teeth  like  some  massive  serpent 
after  every  poor  diminutive  ass  that  came  with  a  coster *s 
barrow.  Another  great  horse  could  not  endure  standing.  It 
would  shake  itself  and  give  little  starts,  and  back  into  the 
heaps  of  carrots  and  broccoli,  whilst  the  driver  went  into  a 
frenzy  of  rage. 

There  was  always  something  to  watch.  One  minute  it  was 
two  great  loads  of  empty  crates,  which  in  passing  had  got 
entangled,  and  reeled,  leaning  to  fall  disastrously.  Then  the 
drivers  cursed  and  swore  and  dismounted  and  stared  at  their 
jeopardised  loads:  till  a  thin  fellow  was  persuaded  to  scramble 
up  the  airy  mountains  of  cages,  like  a  monkey.  And  he 
actually  managed  to  put  them  to  rights.  Great  sigh  of  re- 
lief when  the  vans  rocked  out  of  the  market. 

Again. there  was  a  particular  page-boy  in  buttons,  with  a 
round  and  perky  behind,  who  nimbly  carried  a  tea-tray  from 
somewhere  to  somewhere,  under  the  arches  beside  the  mar- 
ket. The  great  brawny  porters  would  tease  him,  and  he 
would  stop  to  give  them  cheek.    One  afternoon  a  giant  lunged 

100 


LOW-WATER  MARK  loi 

after  him:  the  boy  darted  gracefully  among  the  heaps  of 
vegetables,  still  bearing  aloft  his  tea-tray,  like  some  young 
blue-buttoned  acolyte  fleeing  before  a  false  god.  The  giant 
rolled  after  him — when  alas,  the  acolyte  of  the  tea-tray 
slipped  among  the  vegetables,  and  down  came  the  tray.  Then 
tears,  and  a  roar  of  unfeeling  mirth  from  the  giants.  Lilly 
felt  they  were  going  to  make  it  up  to  him. 

Another  afternoon  a  young  swell  sauntered  persistently 
among  the  vegetables,  and  Lilly,  seated  in  his  high  little  bal- 
cony, wondered  why.  But  at  last,  a  taxi,  and  a  very  expen- 
sive female,  in  a  sort  of  silver  brocade  gown  and  a  great  fur 
shawl  and  ospreys  in  her  bonnet.  Evidently  an  assignation. 
Yet  what  could  be  more  conspicuous  than  this  elegant  pair, 
picking  their  way  through  the  cabbage-leaves? 

And  then,  one  cold  grey  afternoon  in  early  April,  a  man 
in  a  black  overcoat  and  a  bowler  hat,  walking  uncertainly. 
Lilly  had  risen  and  was  just  retiring  out  of  the  chill,  damp 
air.  For  some  reason  he  lingered  to  watch  the  figure.  The 
man  was  walking  east.  He  stepped  rather  insecurely  off  the 
pavement,  and  wavered  across  the  setts  between  the  wheels 
of  the  standing  vans.  And  suddenly  he  went  down.  Lilly 
could  not  see  him  on  the  ground,  but  he  saw  some  van-men 
go  forward,  and  he  saw  one  of  them  pick  up  the  man's  hat. 

"I'd  better  go  down,"  said  Lilly  to  himself. 

So  he  began  running  down  the  four  long  flights  of  stone 
stairs,  past  the  many  doors  of  the  multifarious  business  prem- 
ises, and  out  into  the  market.  A  little  crowd  had  gathered, 
and  a  large  policeman  was  just  rowing  into  the  centre  of  the 
interest.  Lilly,  always  a  hoverer  on  the  edge  of  public  com- 
motions, hung  now  hesitating  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  to  a  rather  sniffy  messenger  boy. 

"Drunk,"  said  the  messenger  boy:  except  that,  in  unblush- 
ing cockney,  he  pronounced  it  "Drank." 

Lilly  hung  further  back  on  the  edge  of  the  little  crowd. 

"Come  on  here.  Where  d'  you  want  to  go?"  he  heard  the 
hearty  tones  of  the  policeman. 

"I'm  all  right.  I'm  all  right,"  came  the  testy  drunken 
answer. 


102  AARON'S  ROD 

"All  right,  are  yerl  All  right,  and  then  some, — come  on, 
get  on  your  pins." 

"I'm  all  right!     I'm  all  right." 

The  voice  made  Lilly  peer  between  the  people.  And  sit- 
ting on  the  granite  setts,  being  hauled  up  by  a  burly  police- 
man, he  saw  our  acquaintance  Aaron,  very  pale  in  the  face 
and  a  little  dishevelled. 

"Like  me  to  tuck  the  sheets  round  you,  shouldn't  you? 
Fancy  yourself  snug  in  bed,  don't  you?  You  won't  believe 
you're  right  in  the  way  of  traffic,  will  you  now,  in  Covent 
Garden  Market?  Come  on,  we'll  see  to  you."  And  the  po- 
liceman hoisted  the  bitter  and  unwilling  Aaron. 

Lilly  was  quickly  at  the  centre  of  the  affair,  unobtrusive 
like  a  shadow,  different  from  the  other  people. 

"Help  him  up  to  my  room,  will  you?"  he  said  to  the  con- 
stable.   "Friend  of  mine." 

The  large  constable  looked  down  on  the  bare-headed  wispy, 
unobtrusive  Lilly  with  good-humoured  suspicion  and  incre- 
dulity. Lilly  could  not  have  borne  it  if  the  policeman  had 
uttered  any  of  this  cockney  suspicion,  so  he  watched  him. 
There  was  a  great  gulf  between  the  public  official  and  the 
odd,  quiet  little  individual — yet  Lilly  had  his  way. 

"Which  room?"  said  the  policeman,  dubious. 

Lilly  pointed  quickly  round.    Then  he  said  to  Aaron: 

"Were  you  coming  to  see  me,  Sisson?  You'll  come  in, 
won't  you?" 

Aaron  nodded  rather  stupidly  and  testily.  His  eyes  looked 
angry.  Somebody  stuck  his  hat  on  his  head  for  him,  and 
made  him  look  a  fool.  Lilly  took  it  off  again,  and  carried 
it  for  him.  He  turned  and  the  crowd  eased.  He  watched 
Aaron  sharply,  and  saw  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  could 
walk.  So  he  caught  him  by  the  arm  on  the  other  side  from 
the  policeman,  and  they  crossed  the  road  to  the  pavement. 

"Not  so  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  these  days,"  said  the 
policeman. 

"Not  so  much  opportunity,"  said  Lilly. 

"More  than  there  was,  though.  Coming  back  to  the  old 
days,  like.    Working  round,  bit  by  bit." 


LOW-WATER  MARK  103 

They  had  arrived  at  the  stairs.    Aaron  stumbled  up. 

"Steady  now!  Steady  does  it!"  said  the  policeman,  steer- 
ing his  charge.  There  was  a  curious  breach  of  distance  be- 
tween Lilly  and  the  constable. 

At  last  Lilly  opened  his  own  door.  The  room  was  pleas- 
ant. The  fire  burned  warm,  the  piano  stood  open,  the  sofa 
was  untidy  with  cushions  and  papers.  Books  and  papers 
covered  the  big  writing  desk.  Beyond  the  screen  made  by 
the  bookshelves  and  the  piano  were  two  beds,  with  washstand 
by  one  of  the  large  windows,  the  one  through  which  Lilly 
had  climbed. 

The  policeman  looked  round  curiously. 

"More  cosy  here  than  in  the  lock-up,  sir!"  he  said. 

Lilly  laughed.    He  was  hastily  clearing  the  sofa. 

"Sit  on  the  sofa,  Sisson,"  he  said. 

The  policeman  lowered  his  charge,  with  a — 

"Right  we  are,  then!" 

Lilly  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  gave  the  policeman  half  a 
crown.  But  he  was  watching  Aaron,  who  sat  stupidly  on  the 
sofa,  very  pale  and  semi-conscious. 

"Do  you  feel  ill,  Sisson?"  he  said  sharply. 

Aaron  looked  back  at  him  with  heavy  eyes,  and  shook  his 
head  slightly. 

"I  believe  you  are,"  said  Lilly,  taking  his  hand. 

"Might  be  a  bit  o'  this  flu,  you  know,"  said  the  policeman. 

"Yes,"  said  Lilly.  "Where  is  there  a  doctor?"  he  added, 
on  reflection. 

"The  nearest?"  said  the  policeman.  And  he  told  him. 
"Leave  a  message  for  you.  Sir?" 

Lilly  wrote  his  address  on  a  card,  then  changed  his  mind. 

"No,  I'll  run  round  myself  if  necessary,"  he  said. 

And  the  policeman  departed. 

"You'll  go  to  bed,  won't  you?"  said  Lilly  to  Aaron,  when 
the  door  was  shut.    Aaron  shook  his  head  sulkily. 

"I  would  if  I  were  you.  You  can  stay  here  till  you're  all 
right.    I'm  alone,  so  it  doesn't  matter." 

But  Aaron  had  relapsed  into  semi-consciousness.  Lilly 
put  the  big  kettle  on  the  gas  stove,  the  little  kettle  on  the  fire. 


104  AARON'S  ROD 

Then  he  hovered  in  front  of  the  stupefied  man.     He  felt 
uneasy.    Again  he  took  Aaron's  hand  and  felt  the  pulse. 

"I'm  sure  you  aren't  well.  You  must  go  to  bed,"  he  said. 
And  he  kneeled  and  unfastened  his  visitor's  boots.  Mean- 
while the  kettle  began  to  boil,  he  put  a  hot-water  bottle  into 
the  bed. 

"Let  us  get  your  overcoat  off,"  he  said  to  the  stupefied 
man.  "Come  along."  And  with  coaxing  and  pulling  and 
pushing  he  got  off  the  overcoat  and  coat  and  waistcoat. 

At  last  Aaron  was  undressed  and  in  bed.  Lilly  brought 
him  tea.  With  a  dim  kind  of  obedience  he  took  the  cup  and 
would  drink.    He  looked  at  Lilly  with  heavy  eyes. 

"I  gave  in,  I  gave  in  to  her,  else  I  should  ha'  been  all  right," 
he  said. 

"To  whom?"  said  Lilly. 

"I  gave  in  to  her — and  afterwards  I  cried,  thinking  of 
Lottie  and  the  children.  I  felt  my  heart  break,  you  know. 
And  that's  what  did  it.  I  should  have  been  all  right  if  I 
hadn't  given  in  to  her — " 

"To  whom?"  said  Lilly. 

"Josephine.  I  felt,  the  minute  I  was  loving  her,  I'd  done 
myself.  And  I  had.  Everything  came  back  on  me.  If  I 
hadn't  given  in  to  her,  I  should  ha'  kept  all  right." 

"Don't  bother  now.    Get  warm  and  still — " 

"I  felt  it — I  felt  it  go,  inside  me,  the  minute  I  gave  in  to 
her.    It's  perhaps  killed  me." 

"No,  not  it.  Never  mind,  be  still.  Be  still,  and  you'll 
be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

"It's  my  own  fault,  for  giving  in  to  her.  If  I'd  kept  myself 
back,  my  liver  wouldn't  have  broken  inside  me,  and  I 
shouldn't  have  been  sick.    And  I  knew — " 

"Never  mind  now.  Have  you  drunk  your  tea?  Lie  down. 
Lie  down,  and  go  to  sleep." 

Lilly  pushed  Aaron  down  in  the  bed,  and  covered  him  over. 
Then  he  thrust  his  hands  under  the  bedclothes  and  felt  his 
feet— still  cold.  He  arranged  the  water  bottle.  Then  he 
put  another  cover  on  the  bed. 


LOW-WATER  MARK  105 

Aaron  lay  still,  rather  grey  and  peaked-looking,  in  a  still- 
ness that  was  not  healthy.  For  some  time  Lilly  went  about 
stealthily,  glancing  at  his  patient  from  time  to  time.  Then 
he  sat  down  to  read. 

He  was  roused  after  a  time  by  a  moaning  of  troubled 
breathing  and  a  fretful  stirring  in  the  bed.  He  went  across. 
Aaron's  eyes  were  open,  and  dark  looking. 

"Have  a  little  hot  milk,"  said  Lilly. 

Aaron  shook  his  head  faintly,  not  noticing. 

"A  little  Bovril?" 

The  same  faint  shake. 

Then  Lilly  wrote  a  note  for  the  doctor,  went  into  the  office 
on  the  same  landing,  and  got  a  clerk,  who  would  be  leaving 
in  a  few  minutes,  to  call  with  the  note.  When  he  came  back 
he  found  Aaron  still  watching. 

"Are  you  here  by  yourself?"  asked  the  sick  man. 

"Yes.    My  wife's  gone  to  Norway." 

"For  good?" 

"No,"  laughed  Lilly.  "For  a  couple  of  months  or  so. 
She'll  come  back  here:  unless  she  joins  me  in  Switzerland 
or  somewhere." 

Aaron  was  still  for  a  while. 

"You've  not  gone  with  her,"  he  said  at  length. 

"To  see  her  people?  No,  I  don't  think  they  want  me  very 
badly — and  I  didn't  want  very  badly  to  go.  Why  should  I? 
It's  better  for  married  people  to  be  separated  sometimes." 

"Ay!"  said  Aaron,  watching  the  other  man  with  fever- 
darkened  eyes. 

"I  hate  married  people  who  are  two  in  one — stuck  together 
like  two  jujube  lozenges,"  said  Lilly. 

"Me  an*  all.    I  hate  'em  myself,"  said  Aaron. 

"Everybody  ought  to  stand  by  themselves,  in  the  first 
place — men  and  women  as  well.  They  can  come  together, 
in  the  second  place,  if  they  like.  But  nothing  is  any  good 
unless  each  one  stands  alone,  intrinsically." 

"I'm  with  you  there,"  said  Aaron.  "If  I'd  kep'  myself 
to  myself  I  shouldn't  be  bad  now — though  I'm  not  very  bad. 


io6  AARON'S  ROD 

I  s'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning.  But  I  did  myself  in  when 
I  went  with  another  woman.  I  felt  myself  go — as  if  the  bile 
broke  inside  me,  and  I  was  sick." 

"Josephine  seduced  you?"  laughed  Lilly. 

"Ay,  right  enough,"  replied  Aaron  grimly.  "She  won't  be 
coming  here,  will  she?" 

"Not  unless  I  ask  her." 

"You  won't  ask  her,  though?" 

"No,  not  if  you  don't  want  her." 

"I  don't." 

The  fever  made  Aaron  naive  and  communicative,  unlike 
himself.  And  he  knew  he  was  being  unlike  himself,  he  knew 
that  he  was  not  in  proper  control  of  himself,  so  he  was  unhappy, 
uneasy. 

"I'll  stop  here  the  night  then,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said. 

"You'll  have  to,"  said  Lilly.  "I've  sent  for  the  doctor. 
I  believe  you've  got  the  flu." 

"Think  I  have?"  said  Aaron  frightened. 

"Don't  be  scared,"  laughed  Lilly. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Lilly  stood  at  the  window  look- 
ing at  the  darkening  market,  beneath  the  street-lamps. 

"I  s'll  have  to  go  to  the  hospital,  if  I  have,"  came  Aaron's 
voice. 

"No,  if  it's  only  going  to  be  a  week  or  a  fortnight's  busi- 
ness, you  can  stop  here.    I've  nothing  to  do,"  said  Lilly. 

"There's  no  occasion  for  you  to  saddle  yourself  with  me," 
said  Aaron  dejectedly. 

"You  can  go  to  your  hospital  if  you  like — or  back  to  your 
lodging — if  you  wish  to,"  said  Lilly.  "You  can  make  up 
your  mind  when  you  see  how  you  are  in  the  morning." 

"No  use  going  back  to  my  lodgings,"  said  Aaron. 

"I'll  send  a  telegram  to  your  wife  if  you  like,"  said  Lilly. 

Aaron  was  silent,  dead  silent,  for  some  time. 

"Nay,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  decided  voice.  "Not  if  I 
die  for  it." 

Lilly  remained  still,  and  the  other  man  lapsed  into  a  sort 
of  semi-sleep,  motionless  and  abandoned.  The  darkness  had 
fallen  over  London,  and  away  below  the  lamps  were  white. 


LOW-WATER  MARK  107 

Lilly  lit  the  green-shaded  reading  lamp  over  the  desk.  Then 
he  stood  and  looked  at  Aaron,  who  lay  still,  looking  sick. 
Rather  beautiful  the  bones  of  the  countenance:  but  the  skull 
too  small  for  such  a  heavy  jaw  and  rather  coarse  mouth. 
Aaron  half-opened  his  eyes,  and  writhed  feverishly,  as  if  his 
limbs  could  not  be  in  the  right  place.  Lilly  mended  the 
fire,  and  sat  down  to  write.  Then  he  got  up  and  went  down- 
stairs to  unfasten  the  street  door,  so  that  the  doctor  could 
walk  up.  The  business  people  had  gone  from  their  various 
holes,  all  the  lower  part  of  the  tall  house  was  in  dark- 
ness. 

Lilly  waited  and  waited.  He  boiled  an  egg  and  made  him- 
self toast.  Aaron  said  he  might  eat  the  same.  Lilly  cocked 
another  egg  and  took  it  to  the  sick  man.  Aaron  looked  at  it 
and  pushed  it  away  with  nausea.  He  would  have  some  tea. 
So  Lilly  gave  him  tea. 

"Not  much  fun  for  you,  doing  this  for  somebody  who  is 
nothing  to  you,"  said  Aaron. 

"I  shouldn't  if  you  were  unsympathetic  to  me,"  said  Lilly. 
"As  it  is,  it's  happened  so,  and  so  we'll  let  be." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Nearly  eight  o'clock." 

"Oh,  my  Lord,  the  opera." 

And  Aaron  got  half  out  of  bed.  But  as  he  sat  on  the  bed- 
side he  knew  he  could  not  safely  get  to  his  feet.  He  re- 
mained a  picture  of  dejection. 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  let  them  know,"  said  Lilly. 

But  Aaron,  blank  with  stupid  misery,  sat  huddled  there  on 
the  bedside  without  answering. 

"I'll  run  round  with  a  note,"  said  Lilly.  "I  suppose  others 
have  had  flu,  besides  you.    Lie  down!" 

But  Aaron  stupidly  and  dejectedly  sat  huddled  on  the 
side  of  the  bed,  wearing  old  flannel  pyjamas  of  Lilly's,  rather 
small  for  him.    He  felt  too  sick  to  move. 

"Lie  down  I  Lie  down!"  said  Lilly.  "And  keep  still  while 
I'm  gone.    I  shan't  be  more  than  ten  minutes." 

"I  don't  care  if  I  die,"  said  Aaron. 

Lilly  laughed. 


io8  AARON'S  ROD 

"YouVe  a  long  way  from  dying,"  said  he,  "or  you  wouldn't 
say  it." 

But  Aaron  only  looked  up  at  him  with  queer,  far-off,  hag- 
gard eyes,  something  like  a  criminal  who  is  just  being  exe- 
cuted. 

"Lie  down!"  said  Lilly,  pushing  him  gently  into  the  bed. 
"You  won't  improve  yourself  sitting  there,  anyhow." 

Aaron  lay  down,  turned  away,  and  was  quite  still.  Lilly 
quietly  left  the  room  on  his  errand. 

The  doctor  did  not  come  until  ten  o'clock:  and  worn  out 
with  work  when  he  did  come. 

"Isn't  there  a  lift  in  this  establishment?"  he  said,  as  he 
groped  his  way  up  the  stone  stairs.  Lilly  had  heard  him, 
and  run  down  to  meet  him. 

The  doctor  poked  the  thermometer  under  Aaron's  tongue 
and  felt  the  pulse.  Then  he  asked  a  few  questions:  listened 
to  the  heart  and  breathing. 

"Yes,  it's  the  flu,"  he  said  curtly.  "Nothing  to  do  but  to 
keep  warm  in  bed  and  not  move,  and  take  plenty  of  milk 
and  liquid  nourishment.  I'll  come  round  in  the  morning  and 
give  you  an  injection.    Lungs  are  all  right  so  far." 

"How  long  shall  I  have  to  be  in  bed?"  said  Aaron. 

"Oh — depends.    A  week  at  least." 

Aaron  watched  him  sullenly — and  hated  him.  Lilly 
laughed  to  himself.  The  sick  man  was  like  a  dog  that  is 
ill  but  which  growls  from  a  deep  corner,  and  will  bite  if  you 
put  your  hand  in.    He  was  in  a  state  of  black  depression. 

Lilly  settled  him  down  for  the  night,  and  himself  went  to 
bed.  Aaron  squirmed  with  heavy,  pained  limbs,  the  night 
through,  and  slept  and  had  bad  dreams.  Lilly  got  up  to  give 
him  drinks.  The  din  in  the  market  was  terrific  before  dawn, 
and  Aaron  suffered  bitterly. 

In  the  morning  he  was  worse.  The  doctor  gave  him  in- 
jections against  pneumonia. 

"You  wouldn't  like  me  to  wire  to  your  wife?"  said  Lilly. 

"No,"  said  Aaron  abruptly.  "You  can  send  me  to  the 
hospital.    I'm  nothing  but  a  piece  of  carrion." 

"Carrionl"  said  Lilly.    "Why?" 


LOW-WATER  MARK  109 

"I  know  it.    I  feel  like  it." 

"Oh,  that's  only  the  sort  of  nauseated  feeling  you  get  with 
flu." 

"I'm  only  fit  to  be  thrown  underground,  and  made  an  end 
of.    I  can't  stand  myself — '' 

He  had  a  ghastly,  grey  look  of  self-repulsion. 

"It's  the  germ  that  makes  you  feel  like  that,"  said  Lilly. 
"It  poisons  the  system  for  a  time.     But  youll  work  it  off." 

At  evening  he  was  no  better,  the  fever  was  still  high.  Yet 
there  were  no  complications — except  that  the  heart  was  ir- 
regular. 

"The  one  thing  I  wonder,"  said  Lilly,  "is  whether  you 
hadn't  better  be  moved  out  of  the  noise  of  the  market.  It's 
fearful  for  you  in  the  early  morning." 

"It  makes  no  difference  to  me,"  said  Aaron. 

The  next  day  he  was  a  little  worse,  if  anything.  The  doc- 
tor knew  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  At  evening  he  gave 
the  patient  a  calomel  pill.  It  was  rather  strong,  and  Aaron 
had  a  bad  time.  His  burning,  parched,  poisoned  inside  was 
twisted  and  torn.  Meanwhile  carts  banged,  porters  shouted, 
all  the  hell  of  the  market  went  on  outside,  away  down  on 
the  cobble  setts.     But  this  time  the  two  men  did  not  hear. 

"You'll  feel  better  now,"  said  Lilly,  "after  the  operation." 

"It's  done  me  harm,"  cried  Aaron  fretfully.  "Send  me  to 
the  hospital,  or  you'll  repent  it.     Get  rid  of  me  in  time." 

"Nay,"  said  Lilly.  "You  get  better.  Damn  it,  you're 
only  one  among  a  million." 

Again  over  Aaron's  face  went  the  ghastly  grimace  of  self- 
repulsion. 

"My  soul's  gone  rotten,"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  LUly.     "Only  toxin  in  the  blood." 

Next  day  the  patient  seemed  worse,  and  the  heart  more 
irregular.  He  rested  badly.  So  far,  Lilly  had  got  a  fair 
night's  rest.  Now  Aaron  was  not  sleeping,  and  he  seemed 
to  struggle  in  the  bed. 

"Keep  your  courage  up,  man,"  said  the  doctor  sharply. 
"You  give  way." 

Aaron  looked  at  him  blackly,  and  did  not  answer. 


no  AARON'S  ROD 

In  the  night  Lilly  was  up  time  after  time.  Aaron  would 
slip  down  on  his  back,  and  go  semi-conscious.  And  then  he 
would  awake,  as  if  drowning,  struggling  to  move,  mentally 
shouting  aloud,  yet  making  no  sound  for  some  moments,  men- 
tally shouting  in  frenzy,  but  unable  to  stir  or  make  a  sound. 
When  at  last  he  got  some  sort  of  physical  control  he  cried: 
''Lift  me  up!     Lift  me  up!" 

Lilly  hurried  and  lifted  him  up,  and  he  sat  panting  with 
a  sobbing  motion,  his  eyes  gloomy  and  terrified,  more  than 
ever  like  a  criminal  who  is  just  being  executed.  He  drank 
brandy,  and  was  laid  down  on  his  side. 

"Don't  let  me  lie  on  my  back,"  he  said,  terrified. 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  Lilly. 

Aaron  frowned  curiously  on  his  nurse. 

"Mind  you  don't  let  me,"  he  said,  exacting  and  really  ter- 
rified. 

"No,  I  won't  let  you." 

And  now  Lilly  was  continually  crossing  over  and  pulling 
Aaron  on  to  his  side,  whenever  he  found  him  slipped  down 
on  his  back. 

In  the  morning  the  doctor  was  puzzled.  Probably  it  was 
the  toxin  in  the  blood  which  poisoned  the  heart.  There  was 
no  pneumonia.  And  yet  Aaron  was  clearly  growing  worse. 
The  doctor  agreed  to  send  in  a  nurse  for  the  coming  night. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  man!"  he  said  sharply  to  his 
patient.  "You  give  way!  You  give  way!  Can't  you  pull 
yourself  together?" 

But  Aaron  only  became  more  gloomily  withheld,  retract- 
ing from  life.  And  Lilly  began  to  be  really  troubled.  He 
got  a  friend  to  sit  with  the  patient  in  the  afternoon,  whilst 
he  himself  went  out  and  arranged  to  sleep  in  Aaron's  room, 
at  his  lodging. 

The  next  morning,  when  he  came  in,  he  found  the  patient 
lying  as  ever,  in  a  sort  of  heap  in  the  bed.  Nurse  had  had 
to  lift  him  up  and  hold  him  up  again.  And  now  Aaron  lay 
in  a  sort  of  semi-stupor  of  fear,  frustrated  anger,  misery  and 
self-repulsion:  a  sort  of  interlocked  depression. 

The  doctor  frowned  when  he  came.    He  talked  with  the 


LOW-WATER  MARK  iii 

nurse,  and  wrote  another  prescription.  Then  he  drew  Lilly 
away  to  the  door. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  fellow?"  he  said.  "Can't  you 
rouse  his  spirit?  He  seems  to  be  sulking  himself  out  of 
life.  He'll  drop  out  quite  suddenly,  you  know,  if  he  goes  on 
like  this.    Can't  you  rouse  him  up?" 

"I  think  it  depresses  him  partly  that  his  bowels  won't 
work.  It  frightens  him.  He's  never  been  ill  in  his  life  be- 
fore," said  Lilly. 

"His  bowels  won't  work  if  he  lets  all  his  spirit  go,  like 
an  animal  dying  of  the  sulks,"  said  the  doctor  impatiently. 
"He  might  go  off  quite  suddenly — dead  before  you  can  turn 
round — " 

Lilly  was  properly  troubled.  Yet  he  did  not  quite  know 
what  to  do.  It  was  early  afternoon,  and  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing into  the  room.  There  were  daffodils  and  anemones  in  a 
jar,  and  freezias  and  violets.  Down  below  in  the  market 
were  two  stalls  of  golden  and  blue  flowers,  gay. 

"The  flowers  are  lovely  in  the  spring  sunshine,"  said  Lilly. 
"I  wish  I  were  in  the  country,  don't  you?  As  soon  as  you 
are  better  we'll  go.  It's  been  a  terrible  cold,  wet  spring. 
But  now  it's  going  to  be  nice.  Do  you  like  being  in  the 
country?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron. 

He  was  thinking  of  his  garden.  He  loved  it.  Never  in 
his  life  had  he  been  away  from  a  garden  before. 

"Make  haste  and  get  better,  and  we'll  go." 

"Where?"  said  Aaron. 

"Hampshire.  Or  Berkshire.  Or  perhaps  you'd  like  to  go 
home  ?    Would  you  ? " 

Aaron  lay  still,  and  did  not  answer. 

"Perhaps  you  want  to,  and  you  don't  want  to,"  said  Lilly. 
"You  can  please  yourself,  anyhow." 

There  was  no  getting  anything  definite  out  of  the  sick  man 
— his  soul  seemed  stuck,  as  if  it  would  not  move. 

Suddenly  Lilly  rose  and  went  to  the  dressing-table. 

"I'm  going  to  rub  you  with  oil,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to 
rub  you  as  mothers  do  their  babies  whose  bowels  don't  work." 


112  AARON'S  ROD 

Aaron  frowned  slightly  as  he  glanced  at  the  dark,  self- 
possessed  face  of  the  little  man. 

"What's  the  good  of  that?"  he  said  irritably.  "I'd  rather 
be  left  alone." 

"Then  you  won't  be." 

Quickly  he  uncovered  the  blond  lower  body  of  his  patient, 
and  began  to  rub  the  abdomen  with  oil,  using  a  slow,  rhythmic, 
circulating  motion,  a  sort  of  massage.  For  a  long  time  he 
rubbed  finely  and  steadily,  then  went  over  the  whole  of  the 
lower  body,  mindless,  as  if  in  a  sort  of  incantation.  He 
rubbed  every  speck  of  the  man's  lower  body — the  abdomen, 
the  buttocks,  the  thighs  and  knees,  down  to  the  feet,  rubbed 
it  all  warm  and  glowing  with  camphorated  oil,  every  bit  of 
it,  chafing  the  toes  swiftly,  till  he  was  almost  exhausted. 
Then  Aaron  was  covered  up  again,  and  Lilly  sat  down  in 
fatigue  to  look  at  his  patient. 

He  saw  a  change.  The  spark  had  come  back  into  the  sick 
eyes,  and  the  faint  trace  of  a  smile,  faintly  luminous,  into 
the  face.  Aaron  was  regaining  himself.  But  Lilly  said  noth- 
ing.   He  watched  his  patient  fall  into  a  proper  sleep. 

And  he  sat  and  watched  him  sleep.  And  he  thought  to 
himself:  "I  wonder  why  I  do  it.  I  wonder  why  I  bother 
with  him.  .  .  .  Jim  ought  to  have  taught  me  my  lesson.  As 
soon  as  this  man's  really  better  he'll  punch  me  in  the  wind, 
metaphorically  if  not  actually,  for  having  interfered  with 
him.  And  Tanny  would  say,  he  was  quite  right  to  do  it. 
She  says  I  want  power  over  them.  What  if  I  do?  They 
don't  care  how  much  power  the  mob  has  over  them,  the 
nation,  Lloyd  George  and  Northcliffe  and  the  police  and 
money.  They'll  yield  themselves  up  to  that  sort  of  power 
quickly  enough,  and  immolate  themselves  pro  bono  publico 
by  the  million.  And  what's  the  bonum  publicum  but  a  mob 
power?  Why  can't  they  submit  to  a  bit  of  healthy  indi- 
vidual authority?  The  fool  would  die,  without  me:  just  as 
that  fool  Jim  will  die  in  hysterics  one  day.  Why  does  he 
last  so  longl 

"Tanny's  the  same.  She  does  nothing  really  but  resist  me: 
my  authority,  or  my  influence,  or  just  me.    At  the  bottom 


LOW-WATER  MARK  113 

of  her  heart  she  just  blindly  and  persistently  opposes  me. 
God  knows  what  it  is  she  opposes:  just  me  myself.  She 
thinks  I  want  her  to  submit  to  me.  So  I  do,  in  a  measure 
natural  to  our  two  selves.  Somewhere,  she  ought  to  submit 
to  me.  But  they  all  prefer  to  kick  against  the  pricks.  Not 
that  they  get  many  pricks.  I  get  them.  Damn  them  all, 
why  don't  I  leave  them  alone?  They  only  grin  and  feel 
triumphant  when  they've  insulted  one  and  punched  one  in 
the  wind. 

*'This  Aaron  will  do  just  the  same.  I  like  him,  and  he 
ought  to  like  me.  And  he'll  be  another  Jim:  he  will  like  me, 
if  he  can  knock  the  wind  out  of  me.  A  lot  of  little  Stavrogins 
coming  up  to  whisper  affectionately,  and  biting  one's  ear. 

"But  anyhow  I  can  soon  see  the  last  of  this  chap:  and 
him  the  last  of  all  the  rest.  I'll  be  damned  for  ever  if  I  see 
their  Jims  and  Roberts  and  Julias  and  Scotts  any  more.  Let 
them  dance  round  their  insipid  hell-broth.    Thin  tack  it  is. 

"There's  a  whole  world  besides  this  little  gang  of  Euro- 
peans. Except,  dear  God,  that  they've  exterminated  all  the 
peoples  worth  knowing.  I  can't  do  with  folk  who  teem  by 
the  billion,  like  the  Chinese  and  Japs  and  orientals  altogether. 
Only  vermin  teem  by  the  billion.  Higher  types  breed  slower. 
I  would  have  loved  the  Aztecs  and  the  Red  Indians.  I  know 
they  hold  the  element  in  life  which  I  am  looking  for — they 
had  living  pride.  Not  like  the  flea-bitten  Asiatics — even 
niggers  are  better  than  Asiatics,  though  they  are  wallowers — 
the  American  races — and  the  South  Sea  Islanders — the  Mar- 
quesans,  the  Maori  blood.  That  was  the  true  blood.  It 
wasn't  frightened.  All  the  rest  are  craven — Europeans,  Asi- 
atics, Africans — everyone  at  his  own  individual  quick  craven 
and  cringing:  only  conceited  in  the  mass,  the  mob.  How  I 
hate  them:  the  mass-bullies,  the  individual  Judases. 

"Well,  if  one  will  be  a  Jesus  he  must  expect  his  Judas. 
That's  why  Abraham  Lincoln  gets  shot.  A  Jesus  makes  a 
Judas  inevitable.  A  man  should  remain  himself,  not  try  to 
spread  himself  over  humanity.  He  should  pivot  himself  on 
his  own  pride. 

"I  suppose  really  I  ought  to  have  packed  this  Aaron  off 


114  AARON'S  ROD 

to  the  hospital.  Instead  of  which  here  am  I  rubbing  him 
with  oil  to  rub  the  life  into  him.  And  I  know  he'll  bite  me, 
like  a  warmed  snake,  the  moment  he  recovers.  And  Tanny 
will  say  'Quite  right,  too,'  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  intimate. 
No,  I  should  have  left  it  to  mechanical  doctors  and  nurses. 

"So  I  should.  Everything  to  its  own.  And  Aaron  belongs 
to  this  little  system,  and  Jim  is  waiting  to  be  psychoanalysed, 
and  Tanny  is  waiting  for  her  own  glorification. 

"All  right,  Aaron.  Last  time  I  break  my  bread  for  any- 
body, this  is.  So  get  better,  my  flautist,  so  that  I  can  go 
away. 

"It  was  easy  for  the  Red  Indians  and  the  Others  to  take 
their  hook  into  death.  They  might  have  stayed  a  bit  longer 
to  help  one  to  defy  the  white  masses. 

"I'll  make  some  tea — " 

Lilly  rose  softly  and  went  across  to  the  fire.  He  had  to 
cross  a  landing  to  a  sort  of  little  lavatory,  with  a  sink  and 
a  tap,  for  water.  The  clerks  peeped  out  at  him  from  an  ad- 
joining office  and  nodded.  He  nodded,  and  disappeared  from 
their  sight  as  quickly  as  possible,  with  his  kettle.  His  dark 
eyes  were  quick,  his  dark  hair  was  untidy,  there  was  some- 
thing silent  and  withheld  about  him.  People  could  never 
approach  him  quite  ordinarily. 

He  put  on  the  kettle,  and  quietly  set  cups  and  plates  on  a 
tray.  The  room  was  clean  and  cosy  and  pleasant.  He  did 
the  cleaning  himself,  and  was  as  efficient  and  inobtrusive  a 
housewife  as  any  woman.  While  the  kettle  boiled,  he  sat 
darning  the  socks  which  he  had  taken  off  Aaron's  feet  when 
the  flautist  arrived,  and  which  he  had  washed.  He  preferred 
that  no  outsider  should  see  him  doing  these  things.  Yet  he 
preferred  also  to  do  them  himself,  so  that  he  should  be  inde- 
pendent of  outside  aid. 

His  face  was  dark  and  hollow,  he  seemed  frail,  sitting  there 
in  the  London  afternoon  darning  the  black  woollen  socks. 
His  full  brow  was  knitted  slightly,  there  was  a  tension.  At 
the  same  time,  there  was  an  indomitable  stillness  about  him, 
as  it  were  in  the  atmosphere  about  him.    His  hands,  though 


LOW-WATER  MARK  115 

small,  were  not  very  thin.  He  bit  off  the  wool  as  he  finished 
his  darn. 

As  he  was  making  the  tea  he  saw  Aaron  rouse  up  in  bed. 

"I've  been  to  sleep.  I  feel  better,"  said  the  patient,  turn- 
ing round  to  look  what  the  other  man  was  doing.  And  the 
sight  of  the  water  steaming  in  a  jet  from  the  teapot  seemed 
attractive. 

"Yes,"  said  Lilly.    "YouVe  slept  for  a  good  two  hours." 

"I  believe  I  have,"  said  Aaron. 

"Would  you  like  a  little  tea?" 

"Ay — and  a  bit  of  toast." 

"YouYe  not  supposed  to  have  solid  food.  Let  me  take 
your  temperature." 

The  temperature  was  down  to  a  hundred,  and  Lilly,  in 
spite  of  the  doctor,  gave  Aaron  a  piece  of  toast  with  his  tea, 
enjoining  him  not  to  mention  it  to  the  nurse. 

In  the  evening  the  two  men  talked. 

"You  do  everything  for  yourself,  then?"  said  Aaron. 

"Yes,  I  prefer  it." 

"You  like  living  all  alone?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  I  never  have  lived  alone.  Tanny 
and  I  have  been  very  much  alone  in  various  countries:  but 
that's  two,  not  one." 

"You  miss  her  then?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  missed  her  horribly  in  the  cottage, 
when  she'd  first  gone.  I  felt  my  heart  was  broken.  But 
here,  where  we've  never  been  together,  I  don't  notice  it  so 
much." 

"She'll  come  back,"  said  Aaron. 

"Yes,  she'll  come  back.  But  I'd  rather  meet  her  abroad 
than  here — and  get  on  a  different  footing." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  There's  something  with  marriage  alto- 
gether, I  think.    Egoisme  a  deux — " 

"What's  that  mean?" 

"Egoisme  d  deux?  Two  people,  one  egoism.  Marriage  is 
a  self-conscious  egoistic  state,  it  seems  to  me." 


ii6  AARON'S  ROD 

"YouVe  got  no  children?"  said  Aaron. 

"No.  Tanny  wants  children  badly.  I  don't.  I'm  thank- 
ful we  have  none." 

"Why?" 

"I  can't  quite  say.  I  think  of  them  as  a  burden.  Be- 
sides, there  are  such  millions  and  billions  of  children  in  the 
world.  And  we  know  well  enough  what  sort  of  millions  and 
billions  of  people  they'll  grow  up  into.  I  don't  want  to  add 
my  quota  to  the  mass — it's  against  my  instinct — " 

"Ay!"  laughed  Aaron,  with  a  curt  acquiescence. 

"Tanny's  furious.  But  then,  when  a  woman  has  got  chil- 
dren, she  thinks  the  world  wags  only  for  them  and  her. 
Nothing  else.  The  whole  world  wags  for  the  sake  of  the 
children — and  their  sacred  mother." 

"Ay,  that's  damned  true,"  said  Aaron. 

"And  myself,  I'm  sick  of  the  children  stunt.  Children 
are  all  right,  so  long  as  you  just  take  them  for  what  they 
are:  young  immature  things  like  kittens  and  half -grown  dogs, 
nuisances,  sometimes  very  charming.  But  I'll  be  hanged  if 
I  can  see  anything  high  and  holy  about  children.  I  should 
be  sorry,  too,  it  would  be  so  bad  for  the  children.  Young 
brats,  tiresome  and  amusing  in  turns." 

"When  they  don't  give  themselves  airs,"  said  Aaron. 

"Yes,  indeed.  Which  they  do  half  the  time.  Sacred  chil- 
dren, and  sacred  motherhood,  I'm  absolutely  fed  stiff  by  it. 
That's  why  I'm  thankful  I  have  no  children.  Tanny  can't 
come  it  over  me  there." 

"It's  a  fact.  When  a  woman's  got  her  children,  by  God, 
she's  a  bitch  in  the  manger.  You  can  starve  while  she  sits 
on  the  hay.    It's  useful  to  keep  her  pups  warm." 

"Yes." 

"Why,  you  know,"  Aaron  turned  e3?citedly  in  the  bed, 
"they  look  on  a  man  as  if  he  was  nothing  but  an  instrument 
to  get  and  rear  children.  If  you  have  anything  to  do  with 
a  woman,  she  thinks  it's  because  you  want  to  get  children 
by  her.  And  I'm  damned  if  it  is.  I  want  my  own  pleasure, 
or  nothing:  and  children  be  damned." 

"Ah,  women — they  must  be  loved,  at  any  price!"  said 


LOW-WATER  MARK  117 

Lilly.  "And  if  you  just  don't  want  to  love  them — and  tell 
them  so — what  a  crime." 

"A  crime!"  said  Aaron.  "They  make  a  criminal  of  you. 
Them  and  their  children  be  cursed.  Is  my  life  given  me  for 
nothing  but  to  get  children,  and  work  to  bring  them  up?  See 
them  all  in  hell  first.  They'd  better  die  while  they're  chil- 
dren, if  childhood's  all  that  important." 

"I  quite  agree,"  said  Lilly.  "If  childhood  is  more  impor- 
tant than  manhood,  then  why  live  to  be  a  man  at  all?  Why 
not  remain  an  infant?" 

"Be  damned  and  blasted  to  women  and  all  their  impor- 
tances," cried  Aaron.  "They  want  to  get  you  under,  and 
children  is  their  chief  weapon." 

"Men  have  got  to  stand  up  to  the  fact  that  manhood  is 
more  than  childhood— and  then  force  women  to  admit  it," 
said  Lilly.  "But  the  rotten  whiners,  they're  all  grovelling 
before  a  baby's  napkin  and  a  woman's  petticoat." 

"It's  a  fact,"  said  Aaron.  But  he  glanced  at  Lilly  oddly, 
as  if  suspiciously.  And  Lilly  caufi'ht  the  look.  But  he  con- 
tinued: 

"And  if  they  think  you  try  to  stand  on  your  legs  and  walk 
with  the  feet  of  manhood,  why,  there  isn't  a  blooming  father 
and  lover  among  them  but  will  do  his  best  to  get  you  down 
and  suffocate  you — either  with  a  baby's  napkin  or  a  woman's 
petticoat." 

Lilly's  lips  were  curling;  he  was  dark  and  bitter. 

"Ay,  it  is  like  that,"  said  Aaron,  rather  subduedly. 

"The  man's  spirit  has  gone  out  of  the  world.  Men  can't 
move  an  inch  unless  they  can  grovel  humbly  at  the  end  of 
the  journey." 

"No,"  said  Aaron,  watching  with  keen,  half-amused  eyes. 

"That's  why  marriage  wants  readjusting — or  extending — 
to  get  men  on  to  their  own  legs  once  more,  and  to  give  them 
the  adventure  again.  But  men  won't  stick  together  and 
fight  for  it.  Because  once  a  woman  has  climbed  up  with 
her  children,  she'll  find  plenty  of  grovellers  ready  to  support 
her  and  suffocate  any  defiant  spirit.    And  women  will  sac- 


ii8  AARON'S  ROD 

rifice  eleven  men,  fathers,  husbands,  brothers  and  lovers,  for 
one  baby — or  for  her  own  female  self-conceit — " 

"She  will  that,"  said  Aaron. 

"And  can  you  find  two  men  to  stick  together,  without  feel- 
ing criminal,  and  without  cringing,  and  without  betraying  one 
another?  You  can^t.  One  is  sure  to  go  fawning  round  some 
female,  then  they  both  enjoy  giving  each  other  away,  and 
doing  a  new  grovel  before  a  woman  again." 

"Ay,"  said  Aaron. 

After  which  Lilly  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  WAR  AGAIN 

"One  is  a  fool,"  said  Lilly,  "to  be  lachrymose.  The  thing 
to  do  is  to  get  a  move  on." 

Aaron  looked  up  with  a  glimpse  of  a  smile.  The  two  men 
were  sitting  before  the  fire  at  the  end  of  a  cold,  wet  April 
day:  Aaron  convalescent,  somewhat  chastened  in  appearance. 

"Ay,"  he  said  rather  sourly.  "A  move  back  to  Guilford 
Street." 

"Oh,  I  meant  to  tell  you,"  said  Lilly.  "I  was  reading  an 
old  Baden  history.  They  made  a  law  in  1528 — ^not  a  law, 
but  a  regulation — that:  if  a  man  forsakes  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, as  now  so  often  happens,  the  said  wife  and  children 
are  at  once  to  be  dispatched  after  him.  I  thought  that  would 
please  you.    Does  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron  briefly. 

"They  would  have  arrived  the  next  day,  like  a  forwarded 
letter." 

"I  should  have  had  to  get  a  considerable  move  on,  at  that 
rate,"  grinned  Aaron. 

"Oh,  no.  You  might  quite  like  them  here."  But  Lilly 
saw  the  white  frown  of  determined  revulsion  on  the  convales- 
cent's face. 

"Wouldn't  you?"  he  asked. 

Aaron  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said.  And  it  was  obvious  he  objected  to  the 
topic.    "What  are  you  going  to  do  about  your  move  on?" 

"Me!"  said  Lilly.  "I'm  going  to  sail  away  next  week — or 
steam  dirtily  away  on  a  tramp  called  the  Maud  Allen  Wing." 

"Where  to?" 

"Malta." 

"Where  from?" 

119 


120  AARON'S  ROD 

"London  Dock.  I  fixed  up  my  passage  this  morning  for 
ten  pounds.    J  am  cook's  assistant,  signed  on." 

Aaron  looked  at  him  with  a  little  admiration. 

"You  can  take  a  sudden  jump,  can't  you?"  he  said. 

"The  difficulty  is  to  refrain  from  jumping:  overboard  or 
anywhere." 

Aaron  smoked  his  pipe  slowly. 

"And  what  good  will  Malta  do  you?"  he  asked,  envious. 

"Heaven  knows.  I  shall  cross  to  Syracuse,  and  move  up 
Italy." 

"Sounds  as  if  you  were  a  millionaire." 

"I've  got  thirty-five  pounds  in  all  the  world.  But  some- 
thing will  come  along." 

"I've  got  more  than  that,"  said  Aaron. 

"Good  for  you,"  replied  Lilly. 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  cupboard,  taking  out  a  bowl  and 
a  basket  of  potatoes.  He  sat  down  again,  paring  the  pota- 
toes.   His  busy  activity  annoyed  Aaron. 

"But  what's  the  good  of  going  to  Malta?  Shall  you  be 
any  different  in  yourself,  in  another  place?  You'll  be  the 
same  there  as  you  are  here." 

"How  am  I  here?" 

"Why,  you're  all  the  time  grinding  yourself  against  some- 
thing inside  you.  You're  never  free.  You're  never  content. 
You  never  stop  chafing." 

Lilly  dipped  his  potato  into  the  water,  and  cut  out  the 
eyes  carefully.  Then  he  cut  it  in  two,  and  dropped  it  in  the 
clean  water  of  the  second  bowl.  He  had  not  expected  this 
criticism. 

"Perhaps  I  don't,"  said  he. 

"Then  what's  the  use  of  going  somewhere  else?  You 
won't  change  yourself." 

"I  may  in  the  end,"  said  Lilly. 

"You'll  be  yourself,  whether  it's  Malta  or  London,"  said 
Aaron. 

"There's  a  doom  for  me,"  laughed  Lilly.  The  water  on 
the  fire  was  boiling.    He  rose  and  threw  in  salt,  then  dropped 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  121 

in  the  potatoes  with  little  plops.  "There  there  are  lots  of  mes. 
I'm  not  only  just  one  proposition.  A  new  place  brings  out 
a  new  thing  in  a  man.  Otherwise  you'd  have  stayed  in  your 
old  place  with  your  family." 

"The  man  in  the  middle  of  you  doesn't  change,"  said 
Aaron. 

"Do  you  find  it  so?"  said  Lilly. 

"Ay.    Every  time." 

"Then  what's  to  be  done?" 

"Nothing,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  You  get  as  much  amuse- 
ment out  of  life  as  possible,  and  there's  the  end  of  it." 

"All  right  then,  I'll  get  the  amusement." 

"Ay,  all  right  then,"  said  Aaron.  "But  there  isn't  any- 
thing wonderful  about  it.  You  talk  as  if  you  were  doing 
something  special.  You  aren't.  You're  no  more  than  a  man 
who  drops  into  a  pub  for  a  drink,  to  liven  himself  up  a  bit. 
Only  you  give  it  a  lot  of  names,  and  make  out  as  if  you  were 
looking  for  the  philosopher's  stone,  or  something  like  that. 
When  you're  only  killing  time  like  the  rest  of  folks,  before 
time  kills  you." 

Lilly  did  not  answer.  It  was  not  yet  seven  o'clock,  but 
the  sky  was  dark.  Aaron  sat  in  the  firelight.  Even  the 
saucepan  on  the  fire  was  silent.  Darkness,  silence,  the  fire- 
light in  the  upper  room,  and  the  two  men  together. 

"It  isn't  quite  true,"  said  Lilly,  leaning  on  the  mantel- 
piece and  staring  down  into  the  fire. 

"Where  isn't  it?  You  talk,  and  you  make  a  man  believe 
you've  got  something  he  hasn't  got?  But  where  is  it,  when 
it  comes  to?  What  have  you  got,  more  than  me  or  Jim 
Bricknell!     Only  a  bigger  choice  of  words,  it  seems  to  me." 

Lilly  was  motionless  and  inscrutable  like  a  shadow. 

"Does  it,  Aaron!"  he  said,  in  a  colorless  voice. 

"Yes.    What  else  is  there  to  it?"  Aaron  sounded  testy. 

"Why,"  said  Lilly  at  last,  "there's  something.  I  agree, 
it*s  true  what  you  say  about  me.  But  there's  a  bit  of  some- 
thing else.  There's  just  a  bit  of  something  in  me,  I  think, 
which  isn't  a  man  running  into  a  pub  for  a  drink—." 


122  AARON'S  ROD 

"And  what—?" 

The  question  fell  into  the  twilight  like  a  drop  of  water 
falling  down  a  deep  shaft  into  a  well. 

"I  think  a  man  may  come  into  possession  of  his  own  soul 
at  last — as  the  Buddhists  teach — but  without  ceasing  to  love, 
or  even  to  hate.  One  loves,  one  hates — but  somewhere  be- 
yond it  all,  one  understands,  and  possesses  one^s  soul  in  pa- 
tience and  in  peace — " 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron  slowly,  "while  you  only  stand  and  talk 
about  it.  But  when  youVe  got  no  chance  to  talk  about  it 
— and  when  youVe  got  to  live — ^you  don't  possess  your  soul, 
neither  in  patience  nor  in  peace,  but  any  devil  that  likes 
possesses  you  and  does  what  it  likes  with  you,  while  you 
fridge  yourself  and  fray  yourself  out  like  a  worn  rag." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Lilly,  "I'm  learning  to  possess  my 
soul  in  patience  and  in  peace,  and  I  know  it.  And  it  isn't  a 
negative  Nirvana  either.  And  if  Tanny  possesses  her  own 
soul  in  patience  and  peace  as  well — and  if  in  this  we  under- 
stand each  other  at  last — then  there  we  are,  together  and 
apart  at  the  same  time,  and  free  of  each  other,  and  eternally 
inseparable.  I  have  my  Nirvana — and  I  have  it  all  to  my- 
self.   But  more  than  that.    It  coincides  with  her  Nirvana." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Aaron.  "But  I  don't  understand  all  that 
word-splitting." 

"I  do,  though.  You  learn  to  be  quite  alone,  and  possess 
your  own  soul  in  isolation — and  at  the  same  time,  to  be  per- 
fectly with  someone  else — that's  all  I  ask." 

"Sort  of  sit  on  a  mountain  top,  back  to  back  with  some- 
body else,  like  a  couple  of  idols." 

"No — because  it  isn't  a  case  of  sitting — or  a  case  of  back 
to  back.  It's  what  you  get  to  after  a  lot  of  fighting  and  a 
lot  of  sensual  fulfilment.  And  it  never  does  away  with  the 
fighting  and  with  the  sensual  passion.  It  flowers  on  top  of 
them,  and  it  would  never  flower  save  on  top  of  them." 

"What  wouldn't?" 

"The  possessing  one's  own  soul — and  the  being  together 
with  someone  else  in  silence,  beyond  speech," 

"And  you've  got  them?" 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  123 

"IVe  got  a  bit  of  the  real  quietness  inside  me." 

"So  has  a  dog  on  a  mat.'* 

"So  I  believe,  too.'' 

"Or  a  man  in  a  pub." 

"Which  I  don't  believe." 

"You  prefer  the  dog?" 

"Maybe." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

"And  I'm  the  man  in  the  pub,"  said  Aaron. 

"You  aren't  the  dog  on  the  mat,  anyhow." 

"And  you're  the  idol  on  the  mountain  top,  worshipping 
yourself." 

"You  talk  to  me  like  a  woman,  Aaron." 

"How  do  you  talk  to  me,  do  you  think?" 

"How  do  I?" 

"Are  the  potatoes  done?" 

Lilly  turned  quickly  aside,  and  switched  on  the  electric 
light.  Everything  changed.  Aaron  sat  still  before  the  fire, 
irritated.     Lilly  went  about  preparing  the  supper. 

The  room  was  pleasant  at  night.  Two  tall,  dark  screens 
hid  the  two  beds.  In  front,  the  piano  was  littered  with 
music,  the  desk  littered  with  papers.  Lilly  went  out  on  to  the 
landing,  and  set  the  chops  to  grill  on  the  gas  stove.  Hastily 
he  put  a  small  table  on  the  hearth-rug,  spread  it  with  a  blue- 
and-white  cloth,  set  plates  and  glasses.  Aaron  did  not  move. 
It  was  not  his  nature  to  concern  himself  with  domestic  mat- 
ters— and  Lilly  did  it  best  alone. 

The  two  men  had  an  almost  uncanny  understanding  of 
one  another — like  brothers.  They  came  from  the  same  dis- 
trict, from  the  same  class.  Each  might  have  been  born  into 
the  other's  circumstance  Like  brothers,  there  was  a  pro- 
found hostility  between  them.    But  hostility  is  not  antipathy. 

Lilly's  skilful  housewifery  always  irritated  Aaron:  it  was 
so  self-sufficient.  But  most  irritating  of  all  was  the  little 
man's  unconscious  assumption  of  priority.  Lilly  was  actually 
unaware  that  he  assumed  this  quiet  predominance  over  oth- 
ers. He  mashed  the  potatoes,  he  heated  the  plates,  he  warmed 
the  red  wine,  he  whisked  eggs  into  the  milk  pudding,  and 


124  AARON'S  ROD 

served  his  visitor  like  a  housemaid.  But  none  of  this  de- 
tracted from  the  silent  assurance  with  which  he  bore  him- 
self, and  with  which  he  seemed  to  domineer  over  his  ac- 
quaintance. 

At  last  the  meal  was  ready.  Lilly  drew  the  curtains, 
switched  off  the  central  light,  put  the  green-shaded  electric 
lamp  on  the  table,  and  the  two  men  drew  up  to  the  meal.  It 
was  good  food,  well  cooked  and  hot.  Certainly  Lilly's  hands 
were  no  longer  clean:  but  it  was  clean  dirt,  as  he  said. 

Aaron  sat  in  the  low  arm-chair  at  table.  So  his  face  was 
below,  in  the  full  light.  Lilly  sat  high  on  a  small  chair,  so 
that  his  face  was  in  the  green  shadow.  Aaron  was  hand- 
some, and  always  had  that  peculiar  well-dressed  look  of  his 
type.  Lilly  was  indifferent  to  his  own  appearance,  and  his 
collar  was  a  rag. 

So  the  two  men  ate  in  silence.  They  had  been  together 
alone  for  a  fortnight  only:  but  it  was  like  a  small  eternity. 
Aaron  was  well  now — only  he  suffered  from  the  depression 
and  the  sort  of  fear  that  follows  influenza. 

"When  are  you  going?"  he  asked  irritably,  looking  up  at 
Lilly,  whose  face  hovered  in  that  green  shadow  above,  and 
worried  him.  • 

"One  day  next  \reek.  They'll  send  me  a  telegram.  Not 
later  than  Thursday." 

"You're  looking  forward  to  going?"  The  question  was  half 
bitter. 

"Yes.    I  want  to  get  a  new  tune  out  of  myself." 

"Had  enough  of  this?" 

"Yes." 

A  flush  of  anger  came  on  Aaron's  face. 

"You're  easily  on,  and  easily  off,"  he  said,  rather  insulting. 

"Am  I?"  said  Lilly.    "What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"Circumstances,"  replied  Aaron  sourly. 

To  which  there  was  no  answer.  The  host  cleared  away 
the  plates,  and  put  the  pudding  on  the  table.  He  pushed  the 
bowl  to  Aaron. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  never  see  you  again,  once  you've  gone," 
said  Aaron. 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  125 

"It^s  your  choice.    I  will  leave  you  an  address." 

After  this,  the  pudding  was  eaten  in  silence. 

"Besides,  Aaron,"  said  Lilly,  drinking  his  last  sip  of  wine, 
"what  do  you  care  whether  you  see  me  again  or  not?  What 
do  you  care  whether  you  see  anybody  again  or  not?  You 
want  to  be  amused.  And  now  you're  irritated  because  you 
think  I  am  not  going  to  amuse  you  any  more:  and  you  don't 
know  who  is  going  to  amuse  you.  I  admit  it's  a  dilemma. 
But  it's  a  hedonistic  dilemma  of  the  commonest  sort." 

"I  don't  know  hedonistic.  And  supposing  I  am  as  you 
say— are  you  any  different?" 

"No,  I'm  not  very  different.  But  I  always  persuade  my- 
self there's  a  bit  of  difference.  Do  you  know  what  Josephine 
Ford  confessed  to  me?  She's  had  her  lovers  enough.  'There 
isn't  any  such  thing  as  love,  Lilly,'  she  said.  'Men  are  sim- 
ply afraid  to  be  alone.  That  is  absolutely  all  there  is  in  it: 
fear  of  being  alone.' " 

"What  by  that?"  said  Aaron. 

"You  agree?" 

"Yes,  on  the  whole." 

"So  do  I — on  the  whole.  And  then  I  asked  her  what  about 
woman.  And  then  she  said  with  a  woman  it  wasn't  fear,  it 
was  just  boredom.  A  woman  is  like  a  violinist:  any  fiddle, 
any  instrument  rather  than  empty  hands  and  no  tune  going." 

"Yes — ^what  I  said  before:  getting  as  much  amusement  out 
of  life  as  possible,"  said  Aaron. 

"You  amuse  me — and  I'll  amuse  you." 

"Yes— just  about  that." 

"All  right,  Aaron,"  said  Lilly.  "I'm  not  going  to  amuse 
you,  or  try  to  amuse  you  any  more." 

"Going  to  try  somebody  else;  and  Malta." 

"Malta,  anyhow." 

"Oh,  and  somebody  else — in  the  next  five  minutes." 

"Yes— that  also." 

"Goodbye  and  good  luck  to  you." 

"Goodbye  and  good  luck  to  you,  Aaron." 

With  which  Lilly  went  aside  to  wash  the  dishes.  Aaron 
sat  alone  under  the  zone  of  light,  turning  over  a  score  of 


126  AARON'S  ROD 

Pelleas.  Though  the  noise  of  London  was  around  them,  it 
was  far  below,  and  in  the  room  was  a  deep  silence.  Each 
of  the  men  seemed  invested  in  his  own  silence. 

Aaron  suddenly  took  his  flute,  and  began  trying  little  pas- 
sages from  the  opera  on  his  knee.  He  had  not  played  since 
his  illness.  The  noise  came  out  a  little  tremulous,  but  low 
and  sweet.  Lilly  came  forward  with  a  plate  and  a  cloth  in 
his  hand. 

"Aaron's  rod  is  putting  forth  again,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"What?"  said  Aaron,  looking  up. 

"I  said  Aaron^s  rod  is  putting  forth  again." 

"What  rod?" 

"Your  flute,  for  the  moment." 

"It^s  got  to  put  forth  my  bread  and  butter." 

"Is  that  all  the  buds  it's  going  to  have?" 

"What  else!" 

"Nay — that's  for  you  to  show.  What  flowers  do  you  imag- 
ine came  out  of  the  rod  of  Moses's  brother?" 

"Scarlet  runners,  I  should  think  if  he'd  got  to  live  on  them." 

"Scarlet  enough,  I'll  bet." 

Aaron  turned  unnoticing  back  to  his  music.  Lilly  finished 
the  wiping  of  the  dishes,  then  took  a  book  and  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table. 

"It's  all  one  to  you,  then,"  said  Aaron  suddenly,  "whether 
we  ever  see  one  another  again?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Lilly,  looking  up  over  his  spectacles.  "I 
very  much  wish  there  might  be  something  that  held  us  to- 
gether." 

"Then  if  you  wish  it,  why  isn't  there?" 

"You  might  wish  your  flute  to  put  out  scarlet-runner  flowers 
at  the  joints." 

"Ay — I  might.     And  it  would  be  all  the  same." 

The  moment  of  silence  that  followed  was  extraordinary  in 
its  hostility. 

"Oh,  we  shall  run  across  one  another  again  some  time," 
said  Aaron. 

"Sure,"  said  Lilly.    "More  than  that:   I'll  write  you  an 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  127 

address  that  will  always  find  me.  And  when  you  write  I 
will  answer  you." 

He  took  a  bit  of  paper  and  scribbled  an  address.  Aaron 
folded  it  and  put  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket.  It  was  an 
Italian  address. 

''But  how  can  I  live  in  Italy?"  he  said.  "You  can  shift 
about.    I'm  tied  to  a  job." 

"You — with  your  budding  rod,  your  flute — and  your  charm 
— ^you  can  always  do  as  you  like." 

"My  what?" 

"Your  flute  and  your  charm." 

"What  charm?" 

"Just  your  own.  Don't  pretend  you  don't  know  you've 
got  it.  I  don't  really  like  charm  myself;  too  much  of  a  trick 
about  it.    But  whether  or  not,  you've  got  it." 

"It's  news  to  me." 

"Not  it." 

"Fact,  it  is." 

"Ha!  Somebody  will  always  take  a  fancy  to  you.  And 
you  can  live  on  that,  as  well  as  on  anything  else." 

"Why  do  you  always  speak  so  despisingly?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"Have  you  any  right  to  despise  another  man?" 

"When  did  it  go  by  rights?" 

"No,  not  with  you." 

"You  answer  me  like  a  woman,  Aaron." 

Again  there  was  a  space  of  silence.  And  again  it  was 
Aaron  who  at  last  broke  it. 

"We're  in  different  positions,  you  and  me,"  he  said. 

"How?" 

"You  can  live  by  your  writing — ^but  I've  got  to  have  a 
job." 

"Is  that  all?"  said  Lilly. 

"Ay,    And  plenty.    You've  got  the  advantage  of  me." 

"Quite,"  said  Lilly.  "But  why?  I  was  a  dirty-nosed  lit- 
tle boy  when  you  were  a  clean-nosed  little  boy.  And  I  always 
had  more  patches  on  my  breeches  than  you:  neat  patches, 


128  AARON'S  ROD 

too,  my  poor  mother!  So  what's  the  good  of  talking  about 
-advantages?  You  had  the  start.  And  at  this  very  moment 
you  could  buy  me  up,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel.  So  don't  feel 
hard  done  by.    It's  a  lie." 

"You've  got  your  freedom." 

"I  make  it  and  I  take  it." 

"Circumstances  make  it  for  you." 

"As  you  like." 

"You  don't  do  a  man  justice,"  said  Aaron. 

"Does  a  man  care?" 

"He  might." 

"Then  he's  no  man." 

"Thanks  again,  old  fellow." 

"Welcome,"  said  Lilly,  grimacing. 

Again  Aaron  looked  at  him,  baffled,  almost  with  hatred. 
Lilly  grimaced  at  the  blank  wall  opposite,  and  seemed  to 
ruminate.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  book.  And  no  sooner 
had  he  forgotten  Aaron,  reading  the  fantasies  of  a  certain 
Leo  Frobenius,  than  Aaron  must  stride  in  again. 

"You  can't  say  there  isn't  a  difference  between  your  posi- 
tion and  mine,"  he  said  pertinently. 

Lilly  looked  darkly  over  his  spectacles. 

"No,  by  God,"  he  said.  "I  should  be  in  a  poor  way  other- 
wise." 

"You  can't  say  you  haven't  the  advantage — ^your  job  gives 
you  the  advantage." 

"All  right.  Then  leave  it  out  with  my  job,  and  leave  me 
alone." 

"That's  your  way  of  dodging  it." 

"My  dear  Aaron,  I  agree  with  you  perfectly.  There  is  no 
difference  between  us,  save  the  fictitious  advantage  given  to 
me  by  my  job.  Save  for  my  job — ^which  is  to  write  lies — 
Aaron  and  I  are  two  identical  little  men  in  one  and  the 
same  little  boat.    Shall  we  leave  it  at  that,  now?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron.    "That's  about  it." 

"Let  us  shake  hands  on  it — and  go  to  bed,  my  dear  chap. 
You  are  just  recovering  from  influenza,  and  look  paler  than 
I  like." 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  129 

"You  mean  you  want  to  be  rid  of  me,"  said  Aaron. 

**Yes,  I  do  mean  that,"  said  Lilly^ 

"Ay,''  said  Aaron. 

And  after  a  few  minutes  more  staring  at  the  score  of  Pel- 
leas,  he  rose,  put  the  score  away  on  the  piano,  laid  his  flute 
beside  it,  and  retired  behind  the  screen.  In  silence,  the 
strange  dim  noise  of  London  sounding  from  below,  Lilly 
read  on  about  the  Kabyles.  His  soul  had  the  faculty  of  di- 
vesting itself  of  the  moment,  and  seeking  further,  deeper 
interests.  These  old  Africans!  And  Atlantis!  Strange, 
strange  wisdom  of  the  Kabyles!  Old,  old  dark  Africa,  and 
the  world  before  the  flood!  How  jealous  Aaron  seemed! 
The  child  of  a  jealous  God.  A  jealous  God!  Could  any 
race  be  anything  but  despicable,  with  such  an  antecedent? 

But  no,  persistent  as  a  jealous  God  himself,  Aaron  reap- 
peared in  his  pyjamas,  and  seated  himself  in  his  chair. 

"What  is  the  difference  then  between  you  and  me,  Lilly?" 
he  said. 

"Haven't  we  shaken  hands  on  it — a  difference  of  jobs." 

"You  don't  believe  that,  though,  do  you?" 

"Nay,  now  I  reckon  you're  trespassing." 

"Why  am  I?    I  know  you  don't  believe  it." 

"What  do  I  believe  then?"  said  Lilly. 

"You  believe  you  know  something  better  than  me — and 
that  you  are  something  better  than  me.    Don't  you?" 

"Do  you  believe  it?" 

"What?" 

"That  I  am  something  better  than  you,  and  that  I  know 
something  better?" 

"No,  because  I  don't  see  it,"  said  Aaron. 

"Then  if  you  don't  see  it,  it  isn't  there.  So  go  to  bed  and 
sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  the  convalescent.  I  am  not 
to  be  badgered  any  more." 

"Am  I  badgering  you?"  said  Aaron. 

"Indeed  you  are." 

"So  I'm  in  the  wrong  again?"  ' 

"Once  more,  my  dear." 

"You're  a  God-Almighty  in  your  way,  you  know." 


130  AARON'S  ROD 

"So  long  as  I'm  not  in  anybody  else's  way —  Anyhow, 
you'd  be  much  better  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just.  And 
I'm  going  out  for  a  minute  or  two.  Don't  catch  cold  there 
with  nothing  on — 

"I  want  to  catch  the  post,"  he  added,  rising. 

Aaron  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  But  almost  before  there 
was  time  to  speak,  Lilly  had  slipped  into  his  hat  and  coat, 
seized  his  letters,  and  gone. 

It  was  a  rainy  night.  Lilly  turned  down  King  Street  to 
walk  to  Charing  Cross.  He  liked  being  out  of  doors.  He 
liked  to  post  his  letters  at  Charing  Cross  post  office.  He 
did  not  want  to  talk  to  Aaron  any  more.  He  was  glad  to 
be  alone. 

He  walked  quickly  down  Villiers  Street  to  the  river,  to  see 
it  flowing  blackly  towards  the  sea.  It  had  an  endless  fascina- 
tion for  him:  never  failed  to  soothe  him  and  give  him  a  sense 
of  liberty.  He  liked  the  night,  the  dark  rain,  the  river,  and 
even  the  traffic.  He  enjoyed  the  sense  of  friction  he  got 
from  the  streaming  of  people  who  meant  nothing  to  him.  It 
was  like  a  fox  slipping  alert  among  unsuspecting  cattle. 

When  he  got  back,  he  saw  in  the  distance  the  lights  of  a 
taxi  standing  outside  the  building  where  he  lived,  and  heard 
a  thumping  and  hallooing.    He  hurried  forward. 

It  was  a  man  called  Herbertson. 

"Oh,  why,  there  you  are!"  exclaimed  Herbertson,  as  Lilly 
drew  near.    "Can  I  come  up  and  have  a  chat?" 

"IVe  got  that  man  who's  had  flu.  I  should  think  he  is  gone 
to  bed." 

"Oh!"  The  disappointment  was  plain.  "Well,  look  here  I 
I'll  just  come  up  for  a  couple  of  minutes."  He  laid  his  hand 
on  Lilly's  arm.  "I  heard  you  were  going  away.  Where  are 
you  going?" 

"Malta." 

"Malta I  Oh,  I  know  Malta  very  well.  Well  now,  it'll 
be  all  right  if  I  come  up  for  a  minute?  I'm  not  going  to 
see  much  more  of  you,  apparently."  He  turned  quickly  to 
the  taxi.     "What  is  it  on  the  clock?" 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  i3i 

.  The  taxi  was  paid,  the  two  men  went  upstairs.  Aaron 
was  in  bed,  but  he  called  as  Lilly  entered  the  room. 

"Hullo!"  said  Lilly.  "Not  asleep?  Captain  Herbertson 
has  come  in  for  a  minute.'' 

"Hope  I  shan't  disturb  you,"  said  Captain  Herbertson, 
laying  down  his  stick  and  gloves,  and  his  cap.  He  was  in 
uniform.  He  was  one  of  the  few  surviving  officers  of  the 
Guards,  a  man  of  about  forty-five,  good-looking,  getting  rather 
stout.  He  settled  himself  in  the  chair  where  Aaron  had  sat, 
hitching  up  his  trousers.  The  gold  identity  plate,  with  its 
gold  chain,  fell  conspicuously  over  his  wrist. 

"Been  to  'Rosemary,' "  he  said.  "Rotten  play,  you  know 
— ^but  passes  the  time  awfully  well.    Oh,  I  quite  enjoyed  it." 

Lilly  offered  him  Sauterne — the  only  thing  in  the  house. 

"Oh,  yes!  How  awfully  nice!  Yes,  thanks,  I  shall  love 
it.  Can  I  have  it  with  soda?  Thanks!  Do  you  know,  I 
think  that's  the  very  best  drink  in  the  tropics:  sweet  white 
wine,  with  soda?  Yes — ^welll —  Well  now,  why  are  you 
going  away?" 

"For  a  change,"  said  Lilly. 

"You're  quite  right,  one  needs  a  change  now  the  damned 
thing  is  all  over.  As  soon  as  I  get  out  of  khaki  I  shall  be 
off.  Malta!  Yes!  I've  been  in  Malta  several  times.  I 
think  Valletta  is  quite  enjoyable,  particularly  in  winter,  with 
the  opera.  Oh — er — Show's  your  wife?  All  right?  Yes!  — 
glad  to  see  her  people  again.  Bound  to  be —  Oh,  by  the 
way,  I  met  Jim  Bricknell.  Sends  you  a  message  hoping  you'll 
go  down  and  stay — down  at  Captain  Bingham's  place  in 
Surrey,  you  know.  Awfully  queer  lot  down  there.  Not  my 
sort,  no.  You  won't  go  down?  No,  I  shouldn't.  Not  the 
right  sort  of  people." 

Herbertson  rattled  away,  rather  spasmodic.  He  had  been 
through  the  very  front  hell  of  the  war — and  like  every  man 
who  had,  he  had  the  war  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  like  an 
obsession.     But  in  the  meantime,  he  skirmished. 

"Yes.  I  was  on  guard  one  day  when  the  Queen  gave  one 
of  her  tea-parties  to  the  blind.    Awful  affair.    But  the  chil- 


132 


AARON'S  ROD 


dren  are  awfully  nice  children.  Prince  of  Wales  awfully  nice, 
almost  too  nice.  Prince  Henry  smart  boy,  too — oh,  a  smart 
boy.  Queen  Mary  poured  the  tea,  and  I  handed  round  bread 
and  butter.  She  told  me  I  made  a  very  good  waiter.  I 
said,  Thank  you.  Madam.  But  I  like  the  children.  Very 
different  from  the  Battenbergs.  Oh! — "  he  wrinkled  his  nose. 
*'I  can't  stand  the  Battenbergs." 

''Mount  Battens,"  said  Lilly. 

''Yes!  Awful  mistake,  changing  the  royal  name.  They 
were  Guelfs,  why  not  remain  it?  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what 
Battenberg  did.    He  was  in  the  Guards,  too — " 

The  talk  flowed  on:  about  royalty  and  the  Guards,  Buck- 
ingham Palace  and  St.  James. 

' 'Rather  a  nice  story  about  Queen  Victoria.  Man  named 
Joyce,  something  or  other,  often  used  to  dine  at  the  Palace. 
And  he  was  an  awfully  good  imitator — really  clever,  you 
know.  Used  to  imitate  the  Queen.  'Mr.  Joyce,'  she  said,  'I 
hear  your  imitation  is  very  amusing.  Will  you  do  it  for 
us  now,  and  let  us  see  what  it  is  like?'  'Oh,  no.  Madam! 
I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  do  it  now.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  in  the 
humour.'  But  she  would  have  him  do  it.  And  it  was  really 
awfully  funny.  He  had  to  do  it.  You  know  what  he  did. 
He  used  to  take  a  table-napkin,  and  put  it  on  with  one  corner 
over  his  forehead,  and  the  rest  hanging  down  behind,  like  her 
veil  thing.  And  then  he  sent  for  the  kettle-lid.  He  always 
had  the  kettle-lid,  for  that  little  crown  of  hers.  And  then 
he  impersonated  her.  But  he  was  awfully  good — so  clever. 
'Mr.  Joyce,'  she  said.  'We  are  not  amused.  Please  leave 
the  room.'  Yes,  that  is  exactly  what  she  said:  We  are  not 
amused — please  leave  the  room.'  I  like  the  We,  don't  you? 
And  he  a  man  of  sixty  or  so.  However,  he  left  the  room  and 
for  a  fortnight  or  so  he  wasn't  invited —  Wasn't  she  won- 
derful— Queen  Victoria  ? ' ' 

And  so,  by  light  transitions,  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  at  the 
front,  and  thus  into  the  trenches.  And  then  Herbertson  was 
on  the  subject  he  was  obsessed  by.  He  had  come,  uncon- 
sciously, for  this  and  this  only,  to  talk  war  to  Lilly:  or  at 
Lilly.    For  the  latter  listened  and  watched,  and  said  nothing. 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  133 

As  a  man  at  night  helplessly  takes  a  taxi  to  find  some  woman, 
some  prostitute,  Herbertson  had  almost  unthinkingly  got  into 
a  taxi  and  come  battering  at  the  door  in  Covent  Garden,  only 
to  talk  war  to  Lilly,  whom  he  knew  very  little.  But  it  was 
a  driving  instinct — to  come  and  get  it  off  his  chest. 

And  on  and  on  he  talked,  over  his  wine  and  soda.  He 
was  not  conceited — ^he  was  not  showing  off — far  from  it.  It 
was  the  same  thing  here  in  this  officer  as  it  was  with  the  pri- 
vates, and  the  same  with  this  Englishman  as  with  a  French- 
man or  a  German  or  an  Italian.  Lilly  had  sat  in  a  cow- 
shed listening  to  a  youth  in  the  north  country:  he  had  sat 
on  the  corn-straw  that  the  oxen  had  been  treading  out,  in 
Calabria,  under  the  moon:  he  had  sat  in  a  farm-kitchen  with 
a  German  prisoner:  and  every  time  it  was  the  same  thing, 
the  same  hot,  blind,  anguished  voice  of  a  man  who  has  seen 
too  much,  experienced  too  much,  and  doesn't  know  where 
to  turn.  None  of  the  glamour  of  returned  heroes,  none  of  the 
romance  of  war:  only  a  hot,  blind,  mesmerised  voice,  going 
on  and  on,  mesmerised  by  a  vision  that  the  soul  cannot  bear. 

In  this  officer,  of  course,  there  was  a  lightness  and  an  appear- 
ance of  bright  diffidence  and  humour.  But  underneath  it  all 
was  the  same  as  in  the  common  men  of  all  the  combatant 
nations:  the  hot,  seared  burn  of  unbearable  experience,  which 
did  not  heal  nor  cool,  and  whose  irritation  was  not  to  be 
relieved.  The  experience  gradually  cooled  on  top:  but  only 
with  a  surface  crust.    The  soul  did  not  heal,  did  not  recover. 

"I  used  to  be  awfully  frightened,"  laughed  Herbertson. 
"Now  you  say,  Lilly,  you'd  never  have  stood  it.  But  you 
would.  You're  nervous — and  it  was  just  the  nervous  ones 
that  did  stand  it.  When  nearly  all  our  officers  were  gone, 
we  had  a  man  come  out — a  man  called  Margeritson,  from 
India — big  merchant  people  out  there.  They  all  said  he  was 
no  good — not  a  bit  of  good — nervous  chap.  No  good  at  all. 
But  when  you  had  to  get  out  of  the  trench  and  go  for  the 
Germans  he  was  perfect — ^perfect — It  all  came  to  him  then, 
at  the  crisis,  and  he  was  perfect. 

"Some  things  frighten  one  man,  and  some  another.  Now 
shells  would  never  frighten  me.    But  I  couldn't  stand  bombs. 


134  AARON'S  ROD 

You  could  tell  the  difference  between  our  machines  and  the 
Germans.  Ours  was  a  steady  noise — drrrrrrrr! — but  their 's 
was  heavy,  drrrrrurudmrruru — !  My  word,  that  got  on 
my  nerves 

"No  I  was  never  hit.  The  nearest  thing  was  when  I  was 
knocked  down  by  an  exploding  shell — several  times  that — 
you  know.  When  you  shout  like  mad  for  the  men  to  come 
and  dig  you  out,  under  all  the  earth.  And  my  word,  you  do 
feel  frightened  then."  Herbertson  laughed  with  a  twinkling 
motion  to  Lilly.  But  between  his  brows  there  was  a  tension 
like  madness. 

"And  a  funny  thing  you  know — ^how  you  don't  notice  things. 
In — let  me  see — 1916,  the  German  guns  were  a  lot  better 
than  ours.  Ours  were  old,  and  when  they're  old  you  can't 
tell  where  they'll  hit:  whether  they'll  go  beyond  the  mark, 
or  whether  they'll  fall  short.  Well,  this  day  our  guns  were 
firing  short,  and  killing  our  own  men.  We'd  had  the  order 
to  charge,  and  were  running  forward,  and  I  suddenly  felt  hot 
water  spurting  on  my  neck — '*  He  put  his  hand  to  the  back 
of  his  neck  and  glanced  round  apprehensively.  "It  was  a 
chap  called  Innes — Oh,  an  awfully  decent  sort — people  were 
in  the  Argentine.  He'd  been  calling  out  to  me  as  we  were 
running,  and  I  was  just  answering.  When  I  felt  this  hot  water 
on  my  neck  and  saw  him  running  past  me  with  no  head — 
he'd  got  no  head,  and  he  went  running  past  me.  I  don't  know 
how  far,  but  a  long  way,  .  .  .  Blood,  you  know — Yes — 
well — 

"Oh,  I  hated  Chelsea — I  loathed  Chelsea — Chelsea  was 
purgatory  to  me.  I  had  a  corporal  called  Wallace — ^he 
was  a  fine  chap — oh,  he  was  a  fine  chap — six  foot  two — and 
about  twenty-four  years  old.  He  was  my  stand-back.  Oh, 
I  hated  Chelsea,  and  parades,  and  drills.  You  know,  when 
it's  drill,  and  you^re  giving  orders,  you  forget  what  order 
you've  just  given — ^in  front  of  the  Palace  there  the  crowd 
don't  notice — but  it's  awful  for  you.  And  you  know  you 
daren't  look  round  to  see  what  the  men  are  doing.  But  Wallace 
was  splendid     He  was  just  behind  me,  and  I'd  hear  him,  quite 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  135 

quiet  you  know,  'It's  right  wheel,  sir/    Always  perfect,  always 
perfect — ^yes — ^well.  .  .  . 

"You  know  you  don't  get  killed  if  you  don't  think  you 
will.  Now  I  never  thought  I  should  get  killed.  And  I  never 
knew  a  man  get  killed  if  he  hadn't  been  thinking  he  would. 
I  said  to  Wallace  I'd  rather  be  out  here,  at  the  front,  than  at 
Chelsea.  I  hated  Chelsea — I  can't  tell  you  how  much.  *0h 
no,  sir!'  he  said.  'I'd  rather  be  at  Chelsea  than  here.  I'd 
rather  be  at  Chelsea.  There  isn't  hell  like  this  at  Chelsea.' 
We'd  had  orders  that  we  were  to  go  back  to  the  real  camp 
the  next  day.  'Never  mind,  Wallace,'  I  said.  'We  shall 
be  out  of  this  hell-on-earth  tomorrow.'  And  he  took  my  hand. 
We  weren't  much  for  showing  feeling  or  anything  in  the 
guards.  But  he  took  my  hand.  And  we  climbed  out  to 
charge — Poor  fellow,  he  was  killed — "  Herbertson  droppel 
his  head,  and  for  some  moments  seemed  to  go  unconscious, 
as  if  struck.  Then  he  lifted  his  face,  and  went  on  in  the 
same  animated  chatty  fashion:  "You  see,  he  had  a  presenti- 
ment. I'm  sure  he  had  a  presentiment.  None  of  the  men  got 
killed  unless  they  had  a  presentiment — like  that,  you  know. . . ." 

Herbertson  nodded  keenly  at  Lilly,  with  his  sharp,  twinkling, 
yet  obsessed  eyes.  Lilly  wondered  why  he  made  the  presenti- 
ment responsible  for  the  death — ^which  he  obviously  did — and 
not  vice  versa.  Herbertson  implied  every  time,  that  you'd 
never  get  killed  if  you  could  keep  yourself  from  having  a 
presentiment.  Perhaps  there  was  something  in  it.  Perhaps 
the  soul  issues  its  own  ticket  of  death,  when  it  can  stand 
no  more.    Surely  life  controls  life:  and  not  accident. 

"It's  a  funny  thing  what  shock  will  do.  We  had  a  sergeant 
and  he  shouted  to  me.  Both  his  feet  were  off — both  his  feet, 
clean  at  the  ankle.  I  gave  him  morphia.  You  know  officers 
aren't  allowed  to  use  the  needle — might  give  the  man  blood 
poisoning.  You  give  those  tabloids.  They  say  they  act  in  a 
few  minutes,  but  they  donH.  It's  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  And 
nothing  is  more  demoralising  than  when  you  have  a  man, 
wounded,  you  know,  and  crying  out.  Well,  this  man  I  gave 
him  the  morphia  before  he  got  over  the  stunning,  you  know. 


136  AARON'S  ROD 

So  he  didn't  feel  the  pain.  Well,  they  carried  him  in.  I  al- 
ways used  to  like  to  look  after  my  men.  So  I  went  next  morn- 
ing and  I  found  he  hadn't  been  removed  to  the  Clearing  Station. 
I  got  hold  of  the  doctor  and  I  said,  'Look  here!  Why  hasn't 
this  man  been  taken  to  the  Clearing  Station?'  I  used  to  get 
excited.  But  after  some  years  they'd  got  used  to  me.  'Don't 
get  excited,  Herbertson,  the  man's  dying.'  'But,'  I  said,  'he's 
just  been  talking  to  me  as  strong  as  you  are.'  And  he  had — 
he'd  talk  as  strong  and  well  as  you  or  me,  then  go  quiet  for  a 
bit.  I  said  I  gave  him  the  morphia  before  he  came  round  from 
the  stunning.  So  he'd  felt  nothing.  But  in  two  hours  he  was 
dead.  The  doctor  says  that  the  shock  does  it  like  that  some- 
times. You  can  do  nothing  for  them.  Nothing  vital  is  in- 
jured— and  yet  the  life  is  broken  in  them.  Nothing  can  be 
done — funny  thing — Must  be  something  in  the  brain — " 

*'It's  obviously  not  the  brain/'  said  Lilly.  "It's  deeper  than 
the  brain." 

"Deeper,"  said  Herbertson,  nodding. 

"Funny  thing  where  life  is.  We  had  a  lieutenant.  You 
know  we  all  buried  our  own  dead.  Well,  he  looked  as  if  he 
was  asleep.  Most  of  the  chaps  looked  like  that."  Herbert- 
son  closed  his  eyes  and  laid  his  face  aside,  like  a  man  asleep 
and  dead  peacefully.  "You  very  rarely  see  a  man  dead  with 
any  other  look  on  his  face — ^you  know  the  other  look. — "  And 
he  clenched  his  teeth  with  a  sudden,  momentaneous,  ghastly 
distortion. — "Well,  you'd  never  have  known  this  chap  was 
dead.  He  had  a  wound  here — in  the  back  of  the  head — and 
a  bit  of  blood  on  his  hand — and  nothing  else,  nothing.  Well, 
I  said  we'd  give  him  a  decent  burial.  He  lay  there  waiting — 
and  they'd  wrapped  him  in  a  filthy  blanket — ^you  know.  Well, 
I  said  he  should  have  a  proper  blanket.  He'd  been  dead  lying 
there  a  day  and  a  half  you  know.  So  I  went  and  got  a 
blanket,  a  beautiful  blanket,  out  of  his  private  kit — his  people 
were  Scotch,  well-known  family — and  I  got  the  pins,  you  know, 
ready  to  pin  him  up  properly,  for  the  Scots  Guards  to  bury 
him.  And  I  thought  he'd  be  stiff,  you  see.  But  when  I  took 
him  by  the  arms,  to  lift  him  on,  he  sat  up.  It  gave  me  an 
awful  shock.     'Why  he's  alive  I'    I  said.     But  they  said  he 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  137 

was  dead.  I  couldn't  believe  it.  It  gave  me  an  awful  shock. 
He  was  as  flexible  as  you  or  me,  and  looked  as  if  he  was  asleep. 
You  couldn't  believe  he  was  dead.  But  we  pinned  him  up  in 
his  blanket.  It  was  an  awful  shock  to  me.  I  couldn't  believe 
a  man  could  be  like  that  after  he'd  been  dead  two  days.  .  .  . 

"The  Germans  were  wonderful  with  the  machine  guns — it's  a 
wicked  thing,  a  machine  gun.  But  they  couldn't  touch  us 
with  the  bayonet.  Every  time  the  men  came  back  they  had 
bayonet  practice,  and  they  got  awfully  good.  You  know  when 
you  thrust  at  the  Germans — so — if  you  miss  him,  you  bring 
your  rifle  back  sharp,  with  a  round  swing,  so  that  the  butt 
comes  up  and  hits  up  under  the  jaw.  It's  one  movement, 
following  on  with  the  stab,  you  see,  if  you  miss  him.  It  was 
too  quick  for  them — But  bayonet  charge  was  worst,  you  know. 
Because  your  man  cries  out  when  you  catch  him,  when  you 
get  him,  you  know.    That's  what  does  you.  .  .  ." 

"No,  oh  no,  this  was  no  war  like  other  wars.  All  the 
machinery  of  it.  No,  you  couldn't  stand  it,  but  for  the  men. 
The  men  are  wonderful,  you  know.  They'll  be  wiped  out. 
.  .  .  No,  it's  your  men  who  keep  you  going,  if  you're  an 
officer.  .  .  .  But  there'll  never  be  another  war  like  this. 
Because  the  Germans  are  the  only  people  who  could  make  a 
war  like  this — and  I  don't  think  they'll  ever  do  it  again, 
do  you?" 

"Oh,  they  were  wonderful,  the  Germans.  They  were  amaz- 
ing. It  was  incredible,  what  they  invented  and  did.  We  had 
to  learn  from  them,  in  the  first  two  years.  But  they  were  too 
methodical.  That's  why  they  lost  the  war.  They  were  too 
methodical.  They'd  fire  their  guns  every  ten  minutes — 
regular.  Think  of  it.  Of  course  we  knew  when  to  run,  and 
when  to  lie  down.  You  got  so  that  you  knew  almost  exactly 
what  they'd  do — if  you'd  been  out  long  enough.  And  then 
you  could  time  what  you  wanted  to  do  yourselves. 

"They  were  a  lot  more  nervous  than  we  were,  at  the  last. 
They  sent  up  enough  light  at  night  from  their  trenches — ^you 
know,  those  things  that  burst  in  the  air  like  electric  light — 
we  had  none  of  that  to  do— they  did  it  all  for  us — lit  up 
everything.    They  were  more  nervous  than  we  were.  ,  .  ." 


138  AARON'S  ROD 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  Herbertson  left.  Lilly, 
depressed,  remained  before  the  fire.  Aaron  got  out  of  bed  and 
came  uneasily  to  the  fire. 

"It  gives  me  the  bellyache,  that  damned  war,"  he  said. 

''So  it  does  me,"  said  Lilly.     ''All  unreal." 

"Real  enough  for  those  that  had  to  go  through  it." 

"No,  least  of  all  for  them,"  said  Lilly  sullenly.  "Not  as 
real  as  a  bad  dream.  Why  the  hell  don't  they  wake  up  and 
realise  it!" 

"That's  a  fact,"  said  Aaron.     "They're  hypnotised  by  it." 

"And  they  want  to  hypnotise  me.  And  I  won't  be  hypno- 
tised. The  war  was  a  lie  and  is  a  lie  and  will  go  on  being  a 
lie  till  somebody  busts  it." 

"It  was  a  fact — you  can't  bust  that.  You  can't  bust  the 
fact  that  it  happened." 

"Yes  you  can.  It  never  happened.  It  never  happened  to 
me.  No  more  than  my  dreams  happen.  My  dreams  don't 
happen:  they  only  seem." 

"But  the  war  did  happen,  right  enough,"  smiled  Aaron 
palely. 

"No,  it  didn't.  Not  to  me  or  to  any  man,  in  his  own  self. 
It  took  place  in  the  automatic  sphere,  like  dreams  do.  But 
the  actual  man  in  every  man  was  just  absent — asleep — or 
drugged — inert — dream-logged.    That's  it." 

"You  tell  'em  so,"  said  Aaron. 

"I  do.  But  it's  no  good.  Because  they  won't  wake  up  now 
even — perhaps  never.  They'll  all  kill  themselves  in  their 
sleep." 

"They  wouldn't  be  any  better  if  they  did  wake  up  and  be 
themselves — that  is,  supposing  they  are  asleep,  which  I  can't 
see.  They  are  what  they  are — and  they're  all  alike — and 
never  very  different  from  what  they  are  now." 

Lilly  stared  at  Aaron  with  black  eyes. 

"Do  you  believe  in  them  less  than  I  do,  Aaron?"  he  asked 
slowly. 

"I  don't  even  want  to  believe  in  them." 

"But  in  yourself?"  Lilly  was  almost  wistful — ^and  Aaron 
uneasy. 


THE  WAR  AGAIN  139 

"I  don't  know  that  I've  any  more  right  to  believe  in  myself 
than  in  them,"  he  replied.    Lilly  watched  and  pondered. 

"No,"  he  said.  "That's  not  true — I  knew  the  war  was  false: 
humanly  quite  false.  I  always  knew  it  was  false.  The  Ger- 
mans were  false,  we  were  false,  everybody  was  false." 

"And  not  you?"  asked  Aaron  shrewishly. 

"There  was  a  wakeful,  self-possessed  bit  of  me  which  knew 
that  the  war  and  all  that  horrible  movement  was  false  for  me. 
And  so  I  wasn't  going  to  be  dragged  in.  The  Germans  could 
have  shot  my  mother  or  me  or  what  they  liked:  I  wouldn't 
have  joined  the  war,  I  would  like  to  kill  my  enemy.  But 
become  a  bit  of  that  huge  obscene  machine  they  called  the 
war,  that  I  never  would,  no,  not  if  I  died  ten  deaths  and  had 
eleven  mothers  violated.  But  I  would  like  to  kill  my  enemy: 
Oh,  yes,  more  than  one  enemy.  But  not  as  a  unit  in  a  vast  ob- 
scene mechanism.    That  never:  no,  never." 

Poor  Lilly  was  too  earnest  and  vehement.  Aaron  made  a 
fine  nose.  It  seemed  to  him  like  a  lot  of  words  and  a  bit 
of  wriggling  out  of  a  hole. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you've  got  men  and  nations,  and  you've 
got  the  machines  of  war — so  how  are  you  going  to  get  out 
of  it?    League  of  Nations?" 

"Damn  all  leagues.  Damn  all  masses  and  groups,  anyhow. 
All  I  want  is  to  get  myself  out  of  their  horrible  heap:  to  get 
out  of  the  swarm.  The  swarm  to  me  is  nightmare  and  nullity 
— ^horrible  helpless  writhing  in  a  dream.  I  want  to  get  myself 
awake,  out  of  it  all — all  that  mass-consciousness,  all  that 
mass-activity — it's  the  most  horrible  nightmare  to  me.  No 
man  is  awake  and  himself.  No  man  who  was  awake  and  in 
possession  of  himself  would  use  poison  gases:  no  man.  His 
own  awake  self  would  scorn  such  a  thing.  It's  only  when  the 
ghastly  mob-sleep,  the  dream  helplessness  of  the  mass-psyche 
overcomes  him,  that  he  becomes  completely  base  and 
obscene." 

"Ha — well,"  said  Aaron.  "It's  the  wide-awake  ones  that 
invent  the  poison  gas,  and  use  it.  Where  should  we  be  with- 
out it?" 

Lilly  started,  went  stiff  and  hostile. 


140  AARON'S  ROD 

"Do  you  mean  that,  Aaron?"  he  said,  looking  into  Aaron's 
face  with  a  hard,  inflexible  look. 

Aaron  turned  aside  half  sheepishly. 

"That's  how  it  looks  on  the  face  of  it,  isn't  it?'*  he  said. 

"Look  here,  my  friend,  it's  too  lat6  for  you  to  be  talking  to 
me  about  the  face  of  things.  If  that's  how  you  feel,  put 
your  things  on  and  follow  Herbertson.  Yes — go  out  of  my 
room.    I  don't  put  up  with  the  face  of  things  here." 

Aaron  looked  at  him  in  cold  amazement. 

"It'll  do  tomorrow  morning,  won't  it?"  he  asked  rather 
mocking. 

"Yes,"  said  Lilly  coldly.  "But  please  go  tomorrow  morn- 
ing." 

"Oh,"  I'll  go  all  right,"  said  Aaron.  "Everybody's  got  to 
agree  with  you — that's  your  price." 

But  Lilly  did  not  answer.  Aaron  turned  into  bed,  his 
satirical  smile  under  his  nose.  Somewhat  surprised,  how- 
ever, at  this  sudden  turn  of  affairs. 

As  he  was  just  going  to  sleep,  dismissing  the  matter,  Lilly 
came  once  more  to  his  bedside,  and  said,  in  a  hard  voice: 

"I'm  not  going  to  pretend  to  have  friends  on  the  face  of 
things.  No,  and  I  don't  have  friends  who  don't  fundamentally 
agree  with  me.  A  friend  means  one  who  is  at  one  with  me  in 
matters  of  life  and  death.  And  if  you're  at  one  with  all  the 
rest,  then  you're  their  friend,  not  mine.  ^  So  be  their  friend. 
And  please  leave  me  in  the  morning.  You  owe  me  nothing, 
you  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me.  I  have  had  enough 
of  these  friendships  where  I  pay  the  piper  and  the  mob  calls 
the  tune. 

"Let  me  tell  you,  moreover,  your  heroic  Herbertsons  lost 
us  more  than  ever  they  won.  A  brave  ant  is  a  damned  cow- 
ardly individual.  Your  heroic  officers  are  a  sad  sight  ajter- 
wards,  when  they  come  home.  Bah,  your  Herbertson!  The 
only  justification  for  war  is  what  we  learn  from  it.  And  what 
have  they  learnt? — ^Why  did  so  many  of  them  have  presenti- 
ments, as  he  called  it?  Because  they  could  feel  inside  them, 
there  was  nothing  to  come  after.    There  was  no  life-courage: 


JHE  WAR  AGAIN  141 

only  death-courage.  Nothing  beyond  this  hell— only  death  or 
love-languishing — " 

"What  could  they  have  seen,  anyhow?"  said  Aaron. 

"It's  not  what  you  see,  actually.  It's  the  kind  of  spirit 
you  keep  inside  you:  the  life  spirit.  When  Wallace  had 
presentiments,  Herbertson,  being  officer,  should  have  said: 
'None  of  that,  Wallace.  You  and  I,  we've  got  to  live  and 
make  life  smoke.' — Instead  of  which  he  let  Wallace  be  killed 
and  his  own  heart  be  broken.  Always  the  death-choice — 
And  we  won't,  we  simply  will  not  face  the  world  as  we've  made 
it,  and  our  own  souls  as  we  find  them,  and  take  the  responsibil- 
ity. We'll  never  get  anywhere  till  we  stand  up  man  to  man 
and  face  everything  out,  and  break  the  old  forms,  but  never 
let  our  own  pride  and  courage  of  life  be  broken." 

Lilly  broke  off,  and  went  silently  to  bed.  Aaron  turned  over 
to  sleep,  rather  resenting  the  sound  of  so  many  words.  What 
difference  did  it  make,  anyhow?  In  the  morning,  however, 
when  he  saw  the  other  man's  pale,  closed,  rather  haughty  face, 
he  realised  that  something  had  happened.  Lilly  was  courteous 
and  even  affable:  but  with  a  curious  cold  space  between  him 
and  Aaron.  Breakfast  passed,  and  Aaron  knew  that  he  must 
leave.  There  was  something  in  Lilly's  bearing  which  just 
showed  him  the  door.  In  some  surprise  and  confusion,  and  in 
some  anger,  not  unmingled  with  humorous  irony,  he  put  his 
things  in  his  bag.  He  put  on  his  hat  and  coat.  Lilly  was 
seated  rather  stiffly  writing. 

"Well,"  said  Aaron.    "I  suppose  we  shall  meet  again." 

"Oh,  sure  to,"  said  Lilly,  rising  from  his  chair.  "We  are 
sure  to  run  across  one  another." 

"When  are  you  going?"  asked  Aaron. 

"In  a  few  days'  time." 

"Oh,  well,  I'll  run  in  and  see  you  before  you  go,  shall  I?" 

"Yes,  do." 

Lilly  escorted  his  guest  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  shook 
hands,  and  then  returned  into  his  own  room,  closing  the  door 
on  himself. 

Aaron  did  not  find  his  friend  at  home  when  he  called.    He 


142  AARON'S  ROD 

took  it  rather  as  a  slap  in  the  face.  But  then  he  knew  quite 
well  that  Lilly  had  made  a  certain  call  on  his,  Aaron's  soul: 
a  call  which  he,  Aaron,  did  not  at  all  intend  to  obey.  If  in 
return  the  soul-caller  chose  to  shut  his  street-door  in  the  face 
of  the  world-friend — ^well,  let  it  be  quits.  He  was  not  sure 
whether  he  felt  superior  to  his  unworldly  enemy  or  not.  He 
rather  thought  he  did. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MORE  PILLAR  OF    SALT 

The  opera  season  ended,  Aaron  was  invited  by  Cyril  Scott 
to  join  a  group  of  musical  people  in  a  village  by  the  sea.  He 
accepted,  and  spent  a  pleasant  month.  It  pleased  the  young 
men  musically-inclined  and  bohemian  by  profession  to 
patronise  the  flautist,  whom  they  declared  marvellous.  Bo- 
hemians with  well-to-do  parents,  they  could  already  afford  to 
squander  a  little  spasmodic  and  self-gratifying  patronage. 
And  Aaron  did  not  mind  being  patronised.  He  had  nothing 
else  to  do. 

But  the  party  broke  up  early  in  September.  The  flautist  was 
detained  a  few  days  at  a  country  house,  for  the  amusement 
of  the  guests.    Then  he  left  for  London. 

In  London  he  found  himself  at  a  loose  end.  A  certain 
fretful  dislike  of  the  patronage  of  indifferent  young  men, 
younger  than  himself,  and  a  certain  distaste  for  regular  work 
in  the  orchestra  made  him  look  round.  He  wanted  something 
else.  He  wanted  to  disappear  again.  Qualms  and  emotions 
concerning  his  abandoned  family  overcame  him.  The  early, 
delicate  autumn  affected  him.  He  took  a  train  to  the  Mid- 
lands. 

And  again,  just  after  dark,  he  strolled  with  his  little  bag 
across  the  field  which  lay  at  the  end  of  his  garden.  It  had 
been  mown,  and  the  grass  was  already  growing  long.  He 
stood  and  looked  at  the  line  of  back  windows,  lighted  once 
more.  He  smelled  the  scents  of  autumn,  phlox  and  moist  old 
vegetation  and  corn  in  sheaf.  A  nostalgia  which  was  half  at 
least  revulsion  affected  him.  The  place,  the  home,  at  once 
fascinated  and  revolted  him. 

Sitting  in  his  shed,  he  scrutinised  his  garden  carefully,  in 
the  starlight.  There  were  two  rows  of  beans,  rather  dis- 
shevelled.    Near  at  hand  the  marrow  plants  sprawled  from 

143 


144  AARON'S  ROD 

their  old  bed.  He  could  detect  the  perfume  of  a  few  carna- 
tions. He  wondered  who  it  was  had  planted  the  garden, 
during  his  long  absence.  Anyhow,  there  it  was,  planted  and 
fruited  and  waning  into  autumn. 

The  blind  was  not  drawn.  It  was  eight  o^clock.  The  chil- 
dren were  going  to  bed.  Aaron  waited  in  his  shed,  his  bowels 
stirred  with  violent  but  only  half-admitted  emotions.  There 
was  his  wife,  slim  and  graceful,  holding  a  little  mug  to  the 
baby's  mouth.  And  the  baby  was  drinking.  She  looked  lonely. 
Wild  emotions  attacked  his  heart.  There  was  going  to  be  a 
wild  and  emotional  reconciliation. 

Was  there?  It  seemed  like  something  fearful  and  imminent. 
A  passion  arose  in  him,  a  craving  for  the  violent  emotional 
reconciliation.  He  waited  impatiently  for  the  children  to  be 
gone  to  bed,  gnawed  with  restless  desire. 

He  heard  the  clock  strike  nine,  then  half-past,  from  the 
village  behind.  The  children  would  be  asleep.  His  wife  was 
sitting  sewing  some  little  frock.  He  went  lingering  down  the 
garden  path,  stooping  to  lift  the  fallen  carnations,  to  see  how 
they  were.  There  were  many  flowers,  but  small.  He  broke 
one  off,  then  threw  it  away.  The  golden  rod  was  out.  Even 
in  the  little  lawn  there  were  asters,  as  of  old. 

His  wife  started  to  listen,  hearing  his  step.  He  was  filled 
with  a  violent  conflict  of  tenderness,  like  a  sickness.  He 
hesitated,  tapping  at  the  door,  and  entered.  His  wife  started 
to  her  feet,  at  bay. 

"What  have  you  come  for! "  was  her  involuntary  ejaculation. 

But  he,  with  the  familiar  odd  jerk  of  his  head  towards  the 
garden,  asked  with  a  faint  smile: 

"Who  planted  the  garden?" 

And  he  felt  himself  dropping  into  the  twang  of  the  verna- 
cular, which  he  had  discarded. 

Lottie  only  stood  and  stared  at  him,  objectively.  She  did 
not  think  to  answer.  He  took  his  hat  off,  and  put  it  on  the 
dresser.    Again  the  familiar  act  maddened  her. 

"What  have  you  come  for?'*  she  cried  again,  with  a  voice 
full  of  hate.  Or  perhaps  it  was  fear  and  doubt  and  even  hope 
as  well.    He  heard  only  hate. 


MORE  PILLAR  OF  SALT  145 

This  time  he  turned  to  look  at  her.  The  old  dagger  was 
drawn  in  her. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "myself." 

Then  she  recovered  herself,  and  with  trembling  hand  picked 
up  her  sewing  again.  But  she  still  stood  at  bay,  beyond  the 
table.  She  said  nothing.  He,  feeling  tired,  sat  down  on  the 
chair  nearest  the  door.  But  he  reached  for  his  hat,  and  kept 
it  on  his  knee.  She,  as  she  stood  there  unnaturally,  went  on 
with  her  sewing.  There  was  silence  for  some  time.  Curious 
sensations  and  emotions  went  through  the  man's  frame  seem- 
ing to  destroy  him.  They  were  like  electric  shocks,  which  he 
felt  she  emitted  against  him.  And  an  old  sickness  came  in 
him  again.  He  had  forgotten  it.  It  was  the  sickness  of  the 
unrecognised  and  incomprehensible  strain  between  him  and 
her. 

After  a  time  she  put  down  her  sewing,  and  sat  again  in  her 
chair. 

"Do  you  know  how  vilely  youVe  treated  me?"  she  said, 
staring  across  the  space  at  him.    He  averted  his  face. 

Yet  he  answered,  not  without  irony. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"And  why?"  she  cried.    "I  should  like  to  know  why." 

He  did  not  answer.  The  way  she  rushed  in  made  him  go 
vague. 

"Justify  yourself.  Say  why  youVe  been  so  vile  to  me. 
Say  what  you  had  against  me,"  she  demanded. 

"What  I  had  against  her,"  he  mused  to  himself:  and  he 
wondered  that  she  used  the  past  tense.    He  made  no  answer. 

"Accuse  me,"  she  insisted.  "Say  what  I've  done  to  make 
you  treat  me  like  this.  Say  it.  You  must  think  it  hard 
enough." 

"Nay,"  he  said.    "I  don't  think  it." 

This  speech,  by  which  he  merely  meant  that  he  did  not 
trouble  to  formulate  any  injuries  he  had  against  her,  puzzled 
her. 

"Don't  come  pretending  you  love  me,  now.  It's  too  late," 
she  said  with  contempt.    Yet  perhaps  also  hope. 

"You  might  wait  till  I  start  pretending,"  he  said. 


146  AARON'S  ROD 

This  enraged  her. 

''You  vile  creature! "  she  exclaimed.  "Go!  What  have  you 
come  for?" 

"To  look  at  yoUy'  he  said  sarcastically. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  began  to  cry,  sobbing  violently  into 
her  apron.    And  again  his  bowels  stirred  and  boiled. 

"What  have  I  done!  What  have  I  done!  I  don't  know 
what  I've  done  that  he  should  be  like  this  to  me,"  she  sobbed, 
into  her  apron.  It  was  childish,  and  perhaps  true.  At  least 
it  was  true  from  the  childish  part  of  her  nature.  He  sat  gloomy 
and  uneasy. 

She  took  the  apron  from  her  tear-stained  face,  and  looked 
at  him.  It  was  true,  in  her  moments  of  roused  exposure  she 
was  a  beautiful  woman — a  beautiful  woman.  At  this  moment, 
with  her  flushed,  tear-stained,  wilful  distress,  she  was  beauti- 
ful. 

"Tell  me,"  she  challenged.  "Tell  me!  Tell  me  what  IVe 
done.   Tell  me  what  you  have  against  me.    Tell  me." 

Watching  like  a  lynx,  she  saw  the  puzzled,  hurt  look  in  his 
face.  Telling  isn't  so  easy — especially  when  the  trouble  goes 
too  deep  for  conscious  comprehension.  He  couldn't  tell  what 
he  had  against  her.  And  he  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
doing  what  she  would  have  liked  him  to  do,  starting  to  pile  up 
detailed  grievances.  He  knew  the  detailed  grievances  were 
nothing  in  themselves. 

"You  canH"  she  cried  vindictively.  "You  canH.  You  can't 
find  anything  real  to  bring  against  me,  though  you'd  like  to. 
Ybu'd  like  to  be  able  to  accuse  me  of  something,  but  you  canH, 
because  you  know  there  isn't  anything." 

She  watched  him,  watched.  And  he  sat  in  the  chair  near 
the  door,  without  moving. 

"You're  unnatural,  that's  what  you  are,"  she  cried.  "You're 
unnatural.  You're  not  a  man.  You  haven't  got  a  man's  feel- 
ings. You're  nasty,  and  cold,  and  unnatural.  And  you're  a 
coward.  You're  a  coward.  You  run  away  from  me,  without 
telling  me  what  you've  got  against  me." 

"When  you've  had  enough,  you  go  away  and  you  don't 
care  what  you  do,"  he  said,  epigrammatic. 


MORE  PILLAR  OF  SALT  147 

She  paused  a  moment. 

"Enough  of  what?"  she  said.  "What  have  you  had  enough 
of?  Of  me  and  your  children?  It's  a  nice  manly  thing  to  say. 
Haven't  I  loved  you?  Haven't  I  loved  you  for  twelve  years, 
and  worked  and  slaved  for  you  and  tried  to  keep  you  right? 
Heaven  knows  where  you'd  have  been  but  for  me,  evil  as 
you  are  at  the  bottom.  You're  evil,  that's  what  it  is — and 
weak.  You're  too  weak  to  love  a  woman  and  give  her  what 
she  wants:  too  weak.    Unmanly  and  cowardly,  he  runs  away." 

"No  wonder,"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  cried.  "It  is  no  wonder,  with  a  nature  like 
yours:   weak  and  unnatural  and  evil.    It  is  no  wonder." 

She  became  quiet — ^and  then  started  to  cry  again,  into  her 
apron.    Aaron  waited.    He  felt  physically  weak. 

"And  who  knows  what  you've  been  doing  all  these  months?" 
she  wept.  "Who  knows  all  the  vile  things  you've  been  doing? 
And  you're  the  father  of  my  children — the  father  of  my  little 
girls — and  who  knows  what  vile  things  he's  guilty  of,  all 
these  months?" 

"I  shouldn't  let  my  imagination  run  away  with  me,"  he 
answered.  "I've  been  playing  the  flute  in  the  orchestra  of 
one  of  the  theatres  in  London." 

"Ha!"  she  cried.  "It's  more  than  that.  Don't  think  I'm 
going  to  believe  you.  I  know  you,  with  your  smooth-sound- 
ing lies.  You're  a  liar,  as  you  know.  And  I  know  you've 
been  doing  other  things  besides  play  a  flute  in  an  orchestra. 
You! — as  if  I  don't  know  you.  And  then  coming  crawling 
back  to  me  with  your  lies  and  your  pretense.  Don't  think 
I'm  taken  in.'' 

"I  should  be  sorry,"  he  said. 

"Coming  crawling  back  to  me,  and  expecting  to  be  for- 
given," she  went  on.  "But  no — I  don't  forgive — and  I  can't 
forgive — never — ^not  as  long  as  I  live  shall  I  forgive  what 
you've  done  to  me." 

"You  can  wait  till  you're  asked,  anyhow,"  he  said. 

"And  you  can  wait,"  she  said.  "And  you  shall  wait." 
She  took  up  her  sewing,  and  stitched  steadily,  as  if  calmly. 
Anyone  glancing  in  would  have  imagined  a  quiet  domestic 


148  AARON'S  ROD 

hearth  at  that  moment.  He,  too,  feeling  physically  weak, 
remained  silent,  feeling  his  soul  absent  from  the  scene. 

Again  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears,  weeping  bitterly. 

*'And  the  children,"  she  sobbed,  rocking  herself  with  grief 
and  chagrin.  "What  have  I  been  able  to  say  to  the  children 
— ^what  have  I  been  able  to  tell  them?" 

"What  have  you  told  them?"  he  asked  coldly. 

"I  told  them  you'd  gone  away  to  work,"  she  sobbed,  laying 
her  head  on  her  arms  on  the  table.  "What  else  could  I  tell 
them?  I  couldn't  tell  them  the  vile  truth  about  their  father. 
I  couldn't  tell  them  how  evil  you  are."  She  sobbed  and 
moaned. 

He  wondered  what  exactly  the  vile  truth  would  have  been, 
had  she  started  to  tell  it.  And  he  began  to  feel,  coldly  and 
cynically,  that  among  all  her  distress  there  was  a  luxuriating 
in  the  violent  emotions  of  the  scene  in  hand,  and  the  situation 
altogether. 

Then  again  she  became  quiet,  and  picked  up  her  sewing. 
She  stitched  quietly,  wistfully,  for  some  time.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  him — a  long  look  of  reproach,  and  sombre  ac- 
cusation, and  wifely  tenderness.    He  turned  his  face  aside. 

"You  know  you've  been  wrong  to  me,  don't  you?"  she  said, 
half  wistfully,  half  menacing. 

He  felt  her  wistfulness  and  her  menace  tearing  him  in  his 
bowels  and  loins 

"You  do  know,  don't  you?"  she  insisted,  still  with  the  wist- 
ful appeal,  and  the  veiled  threat. 

"You  do,  or  you  would  answer,"  she  said.  "You've  still 
got  enough  that's  right  in  you,  for  you  to  know." 

She  waited.    He  sat  still,  as  if  drawn  by  hot  wires. 

Then  she  slipped  across  to  him,  put  her  arms  round  him, 
sank  on  her  knees  at  his  side,  and  sank  her  face  against  his 
thigh. 

"Say  you  know  how  wrong  you  are.  Say  you  know  how 
cruel  you've  been  to  me,"  she  pleaded.  But  under  her  female 
pleading  and  appeal  he  felt  the  iron  of  her  threat. 

"You  do  know  it,"  she  murmured,  looking  up  into  his  face 
as  she  crouched  by  his  knee.    "You  do  know  it.    I  can  see  in 


MORE  PILLAR  OF  SALT  149 

your  eyes  that  you  know  it.  And  why  have  you  come  back 
to  me,  if  you  don^t  know  it!  Why  have  you  come  back  to 
me?  Tell  me!"  Her  arms  gave  him  a  sharp,  compulsory 
little  clutch  round  the  waist.  "Tell  me!  Tell  me!"  she 
murmured,  with  all  her  appeal  liquid  in  her  throat. 

But  him,  it  half  overcame,  and  at  the  same  time,  horrified. 
He  had  a  certain  horror  of  her.  The  strange  liquid  sound 
of  her  appeal  seemed  to  him  like  the  swaying  of  a  serpent 
which  mesmerises  the  fated,  fluttering,  helpless  bird.  She 
clasped  her  arms  round  him,  she  drew  him  to  her,  she  half 
roused  his  passion.  At  the  same  time  she  coldly  horrified 
and  repelled  him.  He  had  not  the  faintest  feeling,  at  the  mo- 
ment, of  his  own  wrong.  But  she  wanted  to  win  his  own 
self-betrayal  out  of  him.  He  could  see  himself  as  the  fas- 
cinated victim,  falling  to  this  cajoUng,  awful  woman,  the  wife 
of  his  bosom.  But  as  well,  he  had  a  soul  outside  himself, 
which  looked  on  the  whole  scene  with  cold  revulsion,  and 
which  was  as  unchangeable  as  time. 

"No,"  he  said.    "I  don't  feel  wrong." 

"You  doT  she  said,  giving  him  a  sharp,  admonitory 
clutch.  "You  do.  Only  you're  silly,  and  obstinate,  babyish 
and  silly  and  obstinate.  An  obstinate  little  boy — ^you  do 
feel  wrong.    And  you  are  wrong.    And  you've  got  to  say  it." 

But  quietly  he  disengaged  himself  and  got  to  his  feet,  his 
face  pale  and  set,  obstinate  as  she  said.  He  put  his  hat  on, 
and  took  his  little  bag.  She  watched  him  curiously,  still 
crouching  by  his  chair. 

"I'll  go,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  the  latch. 

Suddenly  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  clutched  him  by  the 
shirt-neck,  her  hand  inside  his  soft  collar,  half  strangling  him. 

"You  villain,"  she  said,  and  her  face  was  transfigured  with 
passion  as  he  had  never  seen  it  before,  horrible.  "You  vil- 
lain!" she  said  thickly.     "What  have  you  come  here  for?" 

His  soul  went  black  as  he  looked  at  her.  He  broke  her 
hand  away  from  his  shirt  collar,  bursting  the  stud-holes.  She 
recoiled  in  silence.  And  in  one  black,  unconscious  move- 
ment he  was  gone,  down  the  garden  and  over  the  fence  and 
across  the  country,  swallowed  in  a  black  unconsciousness. 


150  AARON'S  ROD 

She,  realising,  sank  upon  the  hearth-rug  and  lay  there  curled 
upon  herself.  She  was  defeated.  But  she,  too,  would  never 
yield.  She  lay  quite  motionless  for  some  time.  Then  she 
got  up,  feeling  the  draught  on  the  floor.  She  closed  the  door, 
and  drew  down  the  blind.  Then  she  looked  at  her  wrist, 
which  he  had  gripped,  and  which  pained  her.  Then  she  went 
to  the  mirror  and  looked  for  a  long  time  at  her  white,  strained, 
determined  face.  Come  life,  come  death,  she,  too,  would  never 
yield.    And  she  realised  now  that  he  would  never  yield. 

She  was  faint  with  weariness,  and  would  be  glad  to  get  to 
bed  and  sleep. 

Aaron  meanwhile  had  walked  across  the  country  and  was 
looking  for  a  place  to  rest.  He  found  a  cornfield  with  a  half- 
built  stack,  and  sheaves  in  stook.  Ten  to  one  some  tramp 
would  have  found  the  stack.  He  threw  a  dozen  sheaves  to- 
gether and  lay  down,  looking  at  the  stars  in  the  September 
sky.  He,  too,  would  never  yield.  The  illusion  of  love  was 
gone  for  ever.  Love  was  a  battle  in  which  each  party  strove 
for  the  mastery  of  the  other's  soul.  So  far,  man  had  yielded 
the  mastery  to  woman.  Now  he  was  fighting  for  it  back 
again.    And  too  late,  for  the  woman  would  never  yield. 

But  whether  woman  yielded  or  not,  he  would  keep  the  mas- 
tery of  his  own  soul  and  conscience  and  actions.  He  would 
never  yield  himself  up  to  her  judgment  again.  He  would 
hold  himself  forever  beyond  her  jurisdiction. 

Henceforth,  life  single,  not  life  double. 

He  looked  at  the  sky,  and  thanked  the  universe  for  the 
blessedness  of  being  alone  in  the  universe.  To  be  alone,  to 
be  oneself,  not  to  be  driven  or  violated  into  something  which 
is  not  oneself,  surely  it  is  better  than  anything.  He  thought 
of  Lottie,  and  knew  how  much  more  truly  herself  she  was 
when  she  was  alone,  with  no  man  to  distort  her.  And  he 
was  thankful  for  the  division  between  them.  Such  scenes 
as  the  last  were  too  horrible  and  unreal. 

As  for  future  unions,  too  soon  to  think  about  it.  Let  there 
be  clean  and  pure  division  first,  perfected  singleness.  That 
is  the  only  way  to  final,  living  unison:  through  sheer,  finished 
singleness. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NOVARA 

Having  no  job  for  the  autumn,  Aaron  fidgetted  in  Lon- 
don. He  played  at  some  concerts  and  some  private  shows. 
He  was  one  of  an  odd  quartette,  for  example,  which  went  to 
play  to  Lady  Artemis  Hooper,  when  she  lay  in  bed  after  her 
famous  escapade  of  falling  through  the  window  of  her  taxi- 
cab.  Aaron  had  that  curious  knack,  which  belongs  to  some 
people,  of  getting  into  the  swim  without  knowing  he  was 
doing  it.  Lady  Artemis  thought  his  flute  lovely,  and  had 
him  again  to  play  for  her.  Aaron  looked  at  her  and  she  at 
him.  She,  as  she  reclined  there  in  bed  in  a  sort  of  half- 
light,  well  made-up,  smoking  her  cigarettes  and  talking  in  a 
rather  raucous  voice,  making  her  slightly  rasping  witty  com- 
ments to  the  other  men  in  the  room — of  course  there  were 
other  men,  the  audience — ^was  a  shock  to  the  flautist.  This 
was  the  bride  of  the  moment!  Curious  how  raucous  her 
voice  sounded  out  of  the  cigarette  smoke.  Yet  he  liked  her 
— the  reckless  note  of  the  modern,  social  freebooter.  In  him- 
self was  a  touch  of  the  same  quality. 

"Do  you  love  playing?"  she  asked  him. 

**Yes,"  he  said,  with  that  shadow  of  irony  which  seemed 
like  a  smile  on  his  face. 

"Live  for  it,  so  to  speak,"  she  said. 

"I  make  my  living  by  it,"  he  said. 

"But  that's  not  really  how  you  take  it?"  she  said.  He 
eyed  her.  She  watched  him  over  her  cigarette.  It  was  a 
personal  moment. 

"I  don't  think  about  it,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sure  you  don't.  You  wouldn't  be  so  good  if  you 
did.  You're  awfully  lucky,  you  know,  to  be  able  to  pour 
yourself  down  your  flute." 

151 


152  AARON'S  ROD 

"You  think  I  go  down  easy?"  he  laughed. 

"Ah! "  she  replied,  flicking  her  cigarette  broadcast.  "That^s 
the  point.  What  should  you  say,  Jimmy?"  she  turned  to  one 
of  the  men.  He  screwed  his  eyeglass  nervously  and  stiffened 
himself  to  look  at  her. 

"I — I  shouldn't  like  to  say,  off-hand,"  came  the  small- 
voiced,  self-conscious  answer.  And  Jimmy  bridled  himself 
and  glanced  at  Aaron. 

"Do  you  find  it  a  tight  squeeze,  then?"  she  said,  turning 
to  Aaron  once  more. 

"No,  I  can't  say  that,"  he  answered.  "What  of  me  goes 
down  goes  down  easy  enough.    It's  what  doesn't  go  down." 

"And  how  much  is  that?"  she  asked,  eying  him. 

"A  good  bit,  maybe,"  he  said. 

"Slops  over,  so  to  speak,"  she  retorted  sarcastically.  "And 
which  do  you  enjoy  more,  trickling  down  your  flute  or  slopping 
over  on  to  the  lap  of  Mother  Earth — of  Miss,  more  prob- 
ably!" 

"Depends,"  he  said. 

Having  got  him  a  few  steps  too  far  upon  the  personal 
ground,  she  left  him  to  get  off  by  himself. 

So  he  found  London  got  on  his  nerves.  He  felt  it  rubbed 
him  the  wrong  way.  He  was  flattered,  of  course,  by  his  own 
success — ^and  felt  at  the  same  time  irritated  by  it.  This  state 
of  mind  was  by  no  means  acceptable.  Wherever  he  was  he 
liked  to  be  given,  tacitly,  .the  first  place — or  a  place  among 
the  first.  Among  the  musical  people  he  frequented,  he  found 
himself  on  a  callow  kind  of  equality  with  everybody,  even 
the  stars  and  aristocrats,  at  one  moment,  and  a  backstairs 
outsider  the  next.  It  was  all  just  as  the  moment  demanded. 
There  was  a  certain  excitement  in  slithering  up  and  down  the 
social  scale,  one  minute  chatting  in  a  personal  tete-a-tete  with 
the  most  famous,  or  notorious,  of  the  society  beauties:  and 
the  next  walking  in  the  rain,  with  his  flute  in  a  bag,  to  his 
grubby  lodging  in  Bloomsbury.  Only  the  excitement  roused 
all  the  savage  sarcasm  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  boul,  and 
which  burned  there  like  an  unhealthy  bile. 


NOVARA  153 

Therefore  he  determined  to  clear  out — to  disappear.  He 
had  a  letter  from  Lilly,  from  Novara.  Lilly  was  drifting 
about.  Aaron  wrote  to  Novara,  and  asked  if  he  should  come 
to  Italy,  having  no  money  to  speak  of.  "Come  if  you  want 
to.  Bring  your  flute.  And  if  youVe  no  money,  put  on  a 
good  suit  of  clothes  and  a  big  black  hat,  and  play  outside  the 
best  cafe  in  any  Italian  town,  and  you'll  collect  enough  to 
get  on  with." 

It  was  a  sporting  chance.  Aaron  packed  his  bag  and  got 
a  passport,  and  wrote  to  Lilly  to  say  he  would  join  him,  as 
invited,  at  Sir  William  Franks'.  He  hoped  Lilly's  answer 
would  arrive  before  he  left  London.    But  it  didn't. 

Therefore  behold  our  hero  alighting  at  Novara,  two  hours 
late,  on  a  wet,  dark  evening.  He  hoped  Lilly  would  be  there: 
but  nobody.  With  some  slight  dismay  he  faced  the  big, 
crowded  station.  The  stream  of  people  carried  him  auto- 
matically through  the  barrier,  a  porter  having  seized  his  bag, 
and  volleyed  various  unintelligible  questions  at  him.  Aaron 
understood  not  one  word.  So  he  just  wandered  after  the 
blue  blouse  of  the  porter. 

The  porter  deposited  the  bag  on  the  steps  of  the  station 
front,  fired  off  more  questions  and  gesticulated  into  the  half- 
illuminated  space  of  darkness  outside  the  station.  Aaron 
decided  it  meant. a  cab,  so  he  nodded  and  said  "Yes."  But 
there  were  no  cabs.  So  once  more  the  blue-bloused  porter 
slung  the  big  bag  and  the  little  bag  on  the  strap  over  his 
shoulder,  and  they  plunged  into  the  night,  towards  some  lights 
and  a  sort  of  theatre  place. 

One  carriage  stood  there  in  the  rain — ^yes,  and  it  was  free. 

"Keb?  Yes — orright — sir.  Whe'to?  Where  you  go?  Sir 
William  Franks?  Yes,  I  know.  Long  way  go — go  long  way. 
Sir  William  Franks." 

The  cabman  spattered  his  few  words  of  English.  Aaron 
gave  the  porter  an  English  shilling.  The  porter  let  the  coin 
lie  in  the  middle  of  his  palm,  as  if  it  were  a  live  beetle,  and 
darted  to  the  light  of  the  carriage  to  examine  the  beast,  ex- 
claiming volubly.     The  cabman,  wild  with  interest,  peered 


154  AARON'S  ROD 

down  from  the  box  into  the  palm  of  the  porter,  and  carried 
on  an  impassioned  dialogue.  Aaron  stood  with  one  foot  on 
the  step. 

"What  you  give — ^he?    One  franc?"  asked  the  driver. 

"A  shilling,"  said  Aaron. 

"One  sheeling.  Yes.  I  know  that.  One  sheeling  Eng- 
lish"— and  the  driver  went  off  into  impassioned  exclamations 
in  Torinese.  The  porter,  still  muttering  and  holding  his  hand 
as  if  the  coin  might  sting  him,  filtered  away. 

"Orright.  He  know — sheeling — orright.  English  moneys, 
eh?    Yes,  he  know.    You  get  up,  sir." 

And  away  went  Aaron,  under  the  hood  of  the  carriage, 
clattering  down  the  wide  darkness  of  Novara,  over  a  bridge 
apparently,  past  huge  rain-wet  statues,  and  through  more 
rainy,  half-lit  streets. 

They  stopped  at  last  outside  a  sort  of  park  wall  with  trees 
above.    The  big  gates  were  just  beyond. 

"Sir  William  Franks — there."  In  a  mixture  of  Italian  and 
English  the  driver  told  Aaron  to  get  down  and  ring  the  bell 
on  the  right.  Aaron  got  down  and  in  the  darkness  was  able 
to  read  the  name  on  the  plate. 

"How  much?"  said  Aaron  to  the  driver. 

"Ten  franc,"  said  the  fat  driver. 

But  it  was  his  turn  now  to  screw  down  and  scrutinise  the 
pink  ten-shilling  note.     He  waved  it  in  his  hand. 

"Not  good,  eh?     Not  good  moneys?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron,  rather  indignantly.  "Good  English 
money.  Ten  shillings.  Better  than  ten  francs,  a  good  deal. 
Better— better— " 

"Good — you  say?  Ten  sheeling — "  The  driver  muttered 
and  muttered,  as  if  dissatisfied.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  he 
stowed  the  note  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  with  considerable  sat- 
isfaction, looked  at  Aaron  curiously,  and  drove  away. 

Aaron  stood  there  in  the  dark  outside  the  big  gates,  and 
wished  himself  somewhere  else.  However,  he  rang  the  bell. 
There  was  a  huge  barking  of  dogs  on  the  other  side.  Pres- 
ently a  light  switched  on,  and  a  woman,  followed  by  a  man, 
appeared  cautiously,  in  the  half-opened  doorway. 


NOVARA  155 

"Sir  William  Franks?"  said  Aaron. 

*'Si,  signore." 

And  Aaron  stepped  with  his  two  bags  inside  the  gate. 
Huge  dogs  jumped  round.  He  stood  in  the  darkness  under 
the  trees  at  the  foot  of  the  park.  The  woman  fastened  the 
gate — ^Aaron  saw  a  door — and  through  an  uncurtained  win- 
dow a  man  writing  at  a  desk — rather  like  the  clerk  in  an 
hotel  office.  He  was  going  with  his  two  bags  to  the  open 
door,  when  the  woman  stopped  him,  and  began  talking  to 
him  in  Italian.  It  was  evident  he  must  not  go  on.  So  he 
put  down  the  bags.  The  man  stood  a  few  yards  away,  watch- 
fully. 

Aaron  looked  down  at  the  woman  and  tried  to  make  out 
something  of  what  she  was  saying,  but  could  not.  The  dogs 
still  barked  spasmodically,  drops  fell  from  the  tall,  dark  trees 
that  rose  overhead. 

"Is  Mr.  Lilly  here?     Mr.  Lilly?"  he  asked. 

"Signor  Lillee.    No,  Signore — " 

And  off  the  woman  went  in  Italian.  But  it  was  evident 
Lilly  was  not  at  the  house.  Aaron  wished  more  than  ever 
he  had  not  come,  but  had  gone  to  an  hotel. 

He  made  out  that  the  woman  was  asking  him  for  his 
name — "Meester — ?  Meester — ?"  she  kept  saying,  with  a  note 
of  interrogation. 

"Sisson.  Mr.  Sisson,"  said  Aaron,  who  was  becoming  im- 
patient. And  he  found  a  visiting  card  to  give  her.  She 
seemed  appeased— said  something  about  telephone — and  left 
him  standing. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  big  drops  were  shaken  from  the 
dark,  high  trees.  Through  the  uncurtained  window  he  saw 
the  man  at  the  desk  reach  the  telephone.  There  was  a  long 
pause.  At  length  the  woman  came  back  and  motioned  to 
him  to  go  up — up  the  drive  which  curved  and  disappeared 
under  the  dark  trees. 

"Go  up  there?"  said  Aaron,  pointing. 

That  was  evidently  the  intention.  So  he  picked  up  his 
bags  and  strode  forward,  from  out  of  the  circle  of  electric 
light,  up  the  curved  drive  in  the  darkness.    It  was  a  steep 


iS6  AARON'S  ROD 

incline.  He  saw  trees  and  the  grass  slopes.  There  was  a 
tang  of  snow  in  the  air. 

Suddenly,  up  ahead,  a  brilliant  light  switched  on.  He 
continued  uphill  through  the  trees  along  the  path,  towards 
it,  and  at  length,  emerged  at  the  foot  of  a  great  flight  of  steps, 
above  which  was  a  wide  glass  entrance,  and  an  Italian  man- 
servant in  white  gloves  hovering  as  if  on  the  brink. 

Aaron  emerged  from  the  drive  and  climbed  the  steps.  The 
manservant  came  down  two  steps  and  took  the  little  bag. 
Then  he  ushered  Aaron  and  the  big  bag  into  a  large,  pillared 
hall,  with  thick  Turkish  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  handsome 
appointments.  It  was  spacious,  comfortable  and  warm;  but 
somewhat  pretentious ;  rather  like  the  imposing  hall  into  which 
the  heroine  suddenly  enters  on  the  film. 

Aaron  dropped  his  heavy  bag,  with  relief,  and  stood  there, 
hat  in  hand,  in  his  damp  overcoat  in  the  circle  of  light,  look- 
ing vaguely  at  the  yellow  marble  pillars,  the  gilded  arches 
above,  the  shadowy  distances  and  the  great  stairs.  The  but- 
ler disappeared — reappeared  in  another  moment — and  through 
an  open  doorway  came  the  host.  Sir  William  was  a  small, 
clean  old  man  with  a  thin,  white  beard  and  a  courtly  de- 
portment, wearing  a  black  velvet  dinner  jacket  faced  with 
purple  silk. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Sisson.  You  come  straight  from 
England?" 

Sir  William  held  out  his  hand  courteously  and  benevolently, 
smiling  an  old  man's  smile  of  hospitality. 

"Mr.  Lilly  has  gone  away?"  said  Aaron. 

"Yes.    He  left  us  several  days  ago." 

Aaron  hesitated. 

"You  didn't  expect  me,  then?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes.  Yes,  oh,  yes.  Very  glad  to  see  you— well, 
now,  come  in  and  have  some  dinner — " 

At  this  moment  Lady  Franks  appeared — short,  rather 
plump,  but  erect  and  definite,  in  a  black  silk  dress  and  pearls 
round  her  throat. 

"How  do  you  do?    We  are  just  at  dinner,"  she  said.    "You 


NO  VARA  157 

haven^t  eaten?    No — ^well,  then — ^would  you  like  a  bath  now, 
or—?" 

It  was  evident  the  Franks  had  dispensed  much  hospital- 
ity: much  of  it  charitable.    Aaron  felt  it. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I'll  wash  my  hands  and  come  straight  in, 
shall  I?" 

"Yes,  perhaps  that  would  be  better — " 

"I'm  afraid  I  am  a  nuisance." 

"Not  at  all — Beppe — "  and  she  gave  instructions  in  Italian. 

Another  footman  appeared,  and  took  the  big  bag.  Aaron 
took  the  little  one  this  time.  They  climbed  the  broad,  turn- 
ing stairs,  crossed  another  handsome  lounge,  gilt  and  ormolu 
and  yellow  silk  chairs  and  scattered  copies  of  The  Graphic  or 
of  Country  Life,  then  they  disappeared  through  a  doorway 
into  a  much  narrower  flight  of  stairs.  Man  can  so  rarely  keep 
it  up  all  the  way,  the  grandeur. 

Two  black  and  white  chamber-maids  appeared.  Aaron 
found  hitnself  in  a  blue  silk  bedroom,  and  a  footman  un- 
strapping his  bag,  which  he  did  not  want  unstrapped.  Next 
minute  he  was  beckoned  and  allured  by  the  Italian  servants 
down  the  corridor,  and  presented  to  the  handsome,  spacious 
bathroom,  which  was  warm  and  creamy-coloured  and  glitter- 
ing with  massive  silver  and  mysterious  with  up-to-date  con- 
veniences. There  he  was  left  to  his  own  devices,  and  felt  like 
a  small  boy  finding  out  how  it  works.  For  even  the  mere 
turning  on  of  the  taps  was  a  problem  in  silver  mechanics. 

In  spite  of  all  the  splendours  and  the  elaborated  conven- 
ience, he  washed  himself  in  good  hot  water,  and  wished  he 
were  having  a  bath,  chiefly  because  of  the  wardrobe  of  mar- 
vellous Turkish  towels.  Then  he  clicked  his  way  back  to 
his  bedroom,  changed  his  shirt  and  combed  his  hair  in  the 
blue  silk  bedroom  with  the  Greuze  picture,  and  felt  a  little 
dim  and  superficial  surprise.  He  had  fallen  into  country 
house  parties  before,  but  never  into  quite  such  a  plushy  sense 
of  riches.  He  felt  he  ought  to  have  his  breath  taken  away. 
But  alas,  the  cinema  has  taken  our  breath  away  so  often, 
investing  us  in  all  the  splendours  of  the  splendidest  American 


158  AARON'S  ROD 

millionaire,  or  all  the  heroics  and  marvels  of  the  Somme  or 
the  North  Pole,  that  life  has  now  no  magnate  richer  than 
we,  no  hero  nobler  than  we  have  been,  on  the  film.  Connu! 
Connul  Everything  life  has  to  offer  is  known  to  us,  couldn't 
be  known  better,  from  the  film. 

So  Aaron  tied  his  tie  in  front  of  a  big  Venice  mirror,  and 
nothing  was  a  surprise  to  him.  He  found  a  footman  hover- 
ing to  escort  him  to  the  dining-room — a  real  Italian  footman, 
uneasy  because  milady's  dinner  was  unsettled.  He  entered 
the  rather  small  dining-room,  and  saw  the  people  at  table. 

He  was  told  various  names:  bowed  to  a  young,  slim  woman 
with  big  blue  eyes  and  dark  hair  like  a  photograph,  then  to 
a  smaller  rather  colourless  young  woman  with  a  large  nose: 
then  to  a  stout,  rubicund,  bald  colonel,  and  to  a  tall,  thin, 
Oxford-looking  major  with  a  black  patch  over  his  eye — both 
these  men  in  khaki:  finally  to  a  good-looking,  well-nourished 
young  man  in  a  dinner-jacket,  and  he  sat  down  to  his  soup, 
on  his  hostess'  left  hand.  The  colonel  sat  on  her  right,  and 
was  confidential.  Little  Sir  William,  with  his  hair  and  his 
beard  white  like  spun  glass,  his  manner  very  courteous  and 
animated,  the  purple  facings  of  his  velvet  jacket  very  im- 
pressive, sat  at  the  far  end  of  the  table  jesting  with  the  ladies 
and  showing  his  teeth  in  an  old  man's  smile,  a  little  bit  af- 
fected, but  pleasant,  wishing  everybody  to  be  happy. 

Aaron  ate  his  soup,  trying  to  catch  up.  Milady's  own 
confidential  Italian  butler,  fidelity  itself,  hovered  quivering 
near,  spiritually  helping  the  newcomer  to  catch  up.  Two 
nice  little  entree  dishes,  specially  prepared  for  Aaron  to  take 
the  place  of  the  bygone  fish  and  vol  au-vents  of  the  proper 
dinner,  testified  to  the  courtesy  and  charity  of  his  hostess. 

Well,  eating  rapidly,  he  had  more  or  less  caught  up  by  the 
time  the  sweets  came.  So  he  swallowed  a  glass  of  wine  and 
looked  round.  His  hostess  with  her  pearls,  and  her  diamond 
star  in  her  grey  hair,  was  speaking  of  Lilly  and  then  of  music 
to  him. 

"I  hear  you  are  a  musician.  That's  what  I  should  have 
been  if  I  had  had  my  way." 

"What  instrument?"  asked  Aaron. 


NO  VARA  159 

"Oh,  the  piano.  Yours  is  the  flute,  Mr.  Lilly  says.  I 
think  the  flute  can  be  so  attractive.  But  I  feel,  of  course, 
you  have  more  range  with  the  piano.  I  love  the  piano — 
and  orchestra." 

At  that  moment,  the  colonel  and  hostess-duties  distracted 
her.  But  she  came  back  in  snatches.  She  was  a  woman  who 
reminded  him  a  little  of  Queen  Victoria;  so  assured  in  her 
own  room,  a  large  part  of  her  attention  always  given  to  the 
successful  issue  of  her  duties,  the  remainder  at  the  disposal 
of  her  guests.  It  was  an  old-fashioned,  not  unpleasant  feel- 
ing: like  retrospect.  But  she  had  beautiful,  big,  smooth  emer- 
alds and  sapphires  on  her  fingers.  Money!  What  a  curious 
thing  it  is!  Aaron  noticed  the  deference  of  all  the  guests  at 
table:  a  touch  of  obsequiousness:  before  the  money!  And 
the  host  and  hostess  accepted  the  deference,  nay,  expected  it, 
as  their  due.  Yet  both  Sir  William  and  Lady  Franks  knew 
that  it  was  only  money  and  success.  They  had  both  a  cer- 
tain afterthought,  knowing  dimly  that  the  game  was  but  a 
game,  and  that  they  were  the  helpless  leaders  in  the  game. 
They  had  a  certain  basic  ordinariness  which  prevented  their 
making  any  great  hits,  and  which  kept  them  disillusioned  all 
the  while.  They  remembered  their  poor  and  insignificant 
days. 

"And  I  hear  you  were  playing  in  the  orchestra  at  Covent 
Garden.  We  came  back  from  London  last  week.  I  enjoyed 
Beecham's  operas  so  much." 

"Which  do  you  like  best?"  said  Aaron. 

"Oh,  the  Russian.    I  think  Ivan.    It  is  such  fine  music." 

"I  find  Ivan  artificial." 

"Do  you?  Oh,  I  don't  think  so.  No,  I  don't  think  you 
can  say  that." 

Aaron  wondered  at  her  assurance.  She  seemed  to  put  him 
just  a  tiny  bit  in  his  place,  even  in  an  opinion  on  music. 
Money  gave  her  that  right,  too.  Curious — the  only  authority 
left.  And  he  deferred  to  her  opinion:  that  is,  to  her  money. 
He  did  it  almost  deliberately.  Yes — what  did  he  believe  in, 
besides  money?  What  does  any  man?  He  looked  at  the 
black  patch  over  the  major's  eye.    What  had  he  given  his 


i6o  AARON'S  ROD 

eye  for? — the  nation's  money.'  Well,  and  very  necessary, 
too;  otherwise  we  might  be  where  the  wretched  Austrians 
are.    Instead  of  which — how  smooth  his  hostess'  sapphires! 

"Of  course  I  myself  prefer  Moussorgsky,"  said  Aaron.  "I 
think  he  is  a  greater  artist.  But  perhaps  it  is  just  personal 
preference." 

"Yes.  Boris  is  wonderful.  Oh,  some  of  the  scenes  in 
Boris!" 

"And  even  more  Kovantchina"  said  Aaron.  "I  wish  we 
could  go  back  to  melody  pure  and  simple.  Yet  I  find  Kovant- 
china,  which  is  all  mass  music  practically,  gives  me  more 
satisfaction  than  any  other  opera." 

"Do  you  really?  I  shouldn't  say  so:  oh,  no — but  you  can't 
mean  that  you  would  like  all  music  to  go  back  to  melody  pure 
and  simple!  Just  a  flute — ^just  a  pipe!  Oh,  Mr.  Sisson, 
you  are  bigoted  for  your  instrument.  I  just  live  in  harmony 
— chords,  chords!'^  She  struck  imaginary  chords  on  the 
white  damask,  and  her  sapphires  swam  blue.  But  at  the 
same  time  she  was  watching  to  see  if  Sir  William  had  still  got 
beside  his  plate  the  white  medicine  cachet  which  he  must 
swallow  at  every  meal.  Because  if  so,  she  must  remind  him 
to  swallow  it.  However,  at  that  very  moment,  he  put  it  on 
his  tongue.  So  that  she  could  turn  her  attention  again  to 
Aaron  and  the  imaginary  chord  on  the  white  damask ;  the  thing 
she  just  lived  in.  But  the  rubicund  bald  colonel,  more  rubi- 
cund after  wine,  most  rubicund  now  the  Marsala  was  going, 
snatched  her  attention  with  a  burly  homage  to  her  femininity, 
and  shared  his  fear  with  her  with  a  boyish  gallantry. 

When  the  women  had  gone  up.  Sir  William  came  near  and 
put  his  hand  on  Aaron's  shoulder.  It  was  evident  the  charm 
was  beginning  to  work.  Sir  William  was  a  self-made  man, 
and  not  in  the  least  a  snob.  He  liked  the  fundamental  ordi- 
nariness in  Aaron,  the  commonness  of  the  common  man. 

"Well  now,  Mr.  Sisson,  we  are  very  glad  to  see  you!  Very 
glad,  indeed.  I  count  Mr.  Lilly  one  of  the  most  interesting 
men  it  has  ever  been  my  good  fortune  to  know.  And  so  for 
your  own  sake,  and  for  Mr.  Lilly's  sake,  we  are  very  glad  to 


NOVARA  i6i 

see  you,  Arthur,  my  boy,  give  Mr.  Sisson  some  Marsala — 
and  take  some  yourself." 

"Thank  you,  Sir,"  said  the  well-nourished  young  man  in 
nice  evening  clothes.  "You'll  take  another  glass  yourself, 
Sir?" 

"Yes,  I  will,  I  will.  I  will  drink  a  glass  with  Mr.  Sisson. 
Major,  where  are  you  wandering  off  to?  Come  and  take  a 
glass  with  us,  my  boy." 

"Thanks,  Sir  William,"  drawled  the  young  major  with  the 
black  patch. 

"Now,  Colonel — I  hope  you  are  in  good  health  and  spir- 
its." 

"Never  better.  Sir  William,  never  better." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it;  very  glad  indeed.  Try  my  Mar- 
sala— I  think  it  is  quite  good.  Port  is  beyond  us  for  the 
moment — for  the  moment — " 

And  the  old  man  sipped  his  brown  wine,  and  smiled  again. 
He  made  quite  a  handsome  picture:  but  he  was  frail. 

"And  where  are  you  bound,  Mr.  Sisson?     Towards  Rome?" 

"I  came  to  meet  Lilly,"  said  Aaron. 

"Ah!  But  Lilly  has  fled  over  the  borders  by  this  time. 
Never  was  such  a  man  for  crossing  frontiers.  Wonderful 
person,  to  be  able  to  do  it." 

"Where  has  he  gone?"  said  Aaron. 

"I  think  to  Geneva  for  the  moment.  But  he  certainly  talked 
of  Venice.    You  yourself  have  no  definite  goal?" 

"No." 

"Ah I     You  have  not  come  to  Italy  to  practice  your  art?" 

"I  shall  have  to  practice  it:  or  else — no,  I  haven't  come 
for  that." 

"Ah,  you  will  have  to  practice  it.  Ah,  yes!  We  are  all 
under  the  necessity  to  eat.  And  you  have  a  family  in  Eng- 
land?    Am  I  not  right?" 

"Quite.    I've  got  a  family  depending  on  me." 

"Yes,  then  you  must  practice  your  art:  you  must  practice 
your  art.  Well — shall  we  join  the  ladies?  Coffee  will  no 
doubt  be  served." 


i62  AARON'S  ROD 

"Will  you  take  my  arm,  Sir?"  said  the  well-nourished 
Arthur. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  the  old  man  motioned  him  away. 

So  they  went  upstairs  to  where  the  three  women  were  sit- 
ting in  the  library  round  the  fire,  chattering  not  very  inter- 
ested.   The  entry  of  Sir  William  at  once  made  a  stir. 

The  girl  in  white,  with  the  biggish  nose,  fluttered  round  him. 
She  was  Arthur's  wife.  The  girl  in  soft  blue  spread  herself 
on  the  couch:  she  was  the  young  Major's  wife,  and  she  had 
a  blue  band  round  her  hair.  The  Colonel  hovered  stout  and 
fidgetty  round  Lady  Franks  and  the  liqueur  stand.  He  and 
the  Major  were  both  in  khaki — ^belonging  to  the  service  on 
duty  in  Italy  still. 

Coffee  appeared — and  Sir  William  doled  out  creme  de 
menthe.  There  was  no  conversation — only  tedious  words. 
The  little  party  was  just  commonplace  and  dull — boring. 
Yet  Sir  William,  the  self-made  man,  was  a  study.  And  the 
young,  Oxford-like  Major,  with  his  English  diffidence  and 
his  one  dark,  pensive,  baffled  eye  was  only  waiting  to  be  ear- 
nest, poor  devil. 

The  girl  in  white  had  been  a  sort  of  companion  to  Lady 
Franks,  so  that  Arthur  was  more  or  less  a  son-in-law.  In 
this  capacity,  he  acted.  Aaron  strayed  round  uneasily  look- 
ing at  the  books,  bought  but  not  read,  and  at  the  big  pic- 
tures above.  It  was  Arthur  who  fetched  out  the  little  boxes 
containing  the  orders  conferred  on  Sir  William  for  his  war- 
work:  and  perhaps  more,  for  the  many  thousands  of  pounds 
he  had  spent  on  his  war-work. 

There  were  three  orders:  one  British,  and  quite  important, 
a  large  silver  star  for  the  breast:  one  Italian,  smaller,  and 
silver  and  gold;  and  one  from  the  State  of  Ruritania,  in  sil- 
ver and  red-and-green  enamel,  smaller  than  the  others. 

"Come  now,  William,"  said  Lady  Franks,  "you  must  try 
them  all  on.  You  must  try  them  all  on  together,  and  let  us 
see  how  you  look.'* 

The  little,  frail  old  man,  with  his  strange  old  man's  blue 
eyes  and  his  old  man's  perpetual  laugh,  swelled  out  his  chest 
and  said: 


NO  VARA  163 

"What,  am  I  to  appear  in  all  my  vanities?"  And  he 
laughed  shortly. 

"Of  course  you  are.  We  want  to  see  you,"  said  the  white 
girl. 

"Indeed  we  do!  We  shouldn't  mind  all  appearing  in  such 
vanities — what,  Lady  Franks!"  boomed  the  Colonel. 

"I  should  think  not,"  replied  his  hostess.  "When  a  man 
has  honours  conferred  on  him,  it  shows  a  poor  spirit  if  he 
isn't  proud  of  them." 

"Of  course  I  am  proud  of  them!"  said  Sir  William. 

"Well  then,  come  and  have  them  pinned  on.  I  think  it*s 
wonderful  to  have  got  so  much  in  one  life-time — wonderful," 
said  Lady  Franks. 

"Oh,  Sir  William  is  a  wonderful  man,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"Well — we  won't  say  so  before  him.  But  let  us  look  at 
him  in  his  orders." 

Arthur,  always  ready  on  these  occasions,  had  taken  the 
large  and  shining  British  star  from  its  box,  and  drew  near 
to  Sir  William,  who  stood  swelling  his  chest,  pleased,  proud, 
and  a  little  wistful. 

"This  one  first,  Sir,"  said  Arthur. 

Sir  William  stood  very  still,  half  tremulous,  like  a  man 
undergoing  an  operation. 

"And  it  goes  just  here — the  level  of  the  heart.  This  is 
where  it  goes."  And  carefully  he  pinned  the  large,  radiat- 
ing ornament  on  the  black  velvet  dinner-jacket  of  the  old 
man. 

"That  is  the  first — and  very  becoming,"  said  Lady  Franks. 

"Oh,  very  becoming!  Very  becoming!"  said  the  tall  wife 
of  the  Major — she  was  a  handsome  young  woman  of  the  tall, 
frail  type. 

"Do  you  think  so,  my  dear?"  said  the  old  man,  with  his 
eternal  smile:  the  curious  smile  of  old  people  when  they 
are  dead. 

"Not  only  becoming.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  bending  his  tall, 
slim  figure  forwards.  "But  a  reassuring  sign  that  a  nation 
knows  how  to  distinguish  her  valuable  men." 

"Quite!"  said  Lady  Franks.    "I  think  it  is  a  very  great 


164  AARON'S  ROD 

honour  to  have  got  it.  The  king  was  most  gracious,  too — 
Now  the  other.    That  goes  beside  it — the  Italian — " 

Sir  William  stood  there  undergoing  the  operation  of  the 
pinning-on.  The  Italian  star  being  somewhat  smaller  than 
the  British,  there  was  a  slight  question  as  to  where  exactly 
it  should  be  placed.  However,  Arthur  decided  it:  and  the 
old  man  stood  before  the  company  with  his  two  stars  on  his 
breast. 

"And  now  the  Ruritanian,"  said  Lady  Franks  eagerly. 

"That  doesn't  go  on  the  same  level  with  the  others,  Lady 
Franks,"  said  Arthur.  "That  goes  much  lower  down — about 
here." 

"Are  vou  sure?"  said  Lady  Franks.  "Doesn't  it  go  more 
here?"  ' 

"No  no,  no  no,  not  at  all.    Here!     Isn't  it  so,  Sybil?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Sybil. 

Old  Sir  William  stood  quite  silent,  his  breast  prepared, 
peering  over  the  facings  of  his  coat  to  see  where  the  star  was 
going.  The  Colonel  was  called  in,  and  though  he  knew 
nothing  about  it,  he  agreed  with  Arthur,  who  apparently  did 
know  something.  So  the  star  was  pinned  quite  low  down. 
Sir  William,  peeping  down,  exclaimed: 

"Well,  that  is  most  curious  now!  I  wear  an  order  over 
the  pit  of  my  stomach!  I  think  that  is  very  curious:  a  curi- 
ous place  to  wear  an  order." 

"Stand  up!  Stand  up  and  let  us  look!"  said  Lady  Franks. 
"There  now>  isn't  it  handsome?  And  isn't  it  a  great  deal 
of  honour  for  one  man?  Could  he  have  expected  so  much,  in 
one  life- time?  I  call  it  wonderful.  Come  and  look  at  your- 
self, dear" — and  she  led  him  to  a  mirror. 

"What's  more,  all  thoroughly  deserved,"  said  Arthur. 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  the  Colonel,  fidgetting. 

"Ah,  yes,  nobody  has  deserved  them  better,"  cooed  Sybil. 

"Nor  on  more  humane  and  generous  grounds,"  said  the 
Major,  sotto  voce. 

"The  effort  to  save  life,  indeed,"  returned  the  Major's 
young  wife:  "splendid I" 


NOVARA  ,i6s 

Sir  William  stood  naively  before  the  mirror  and  looked  at 
his  three  stars  on  his  black  velvet  dinner-jacket. 

"Almost  directly  over  the  pit  of  my  stomach,"  he  said.  "1 
hope  that  is  not  a  decoration  for  my  greedy  appetite."  And 
he  laughed  at  the  young  women. 

"I  assure  you  it  is  in  position,  Sir,"  said  Arthur.  "Abso- 
lutely correct.    I  will  read  it  out  to  you  later." 

"Aren't  you  satisfied?  Aren't  you  a  proud  man!  Isn't 
it  wonderful?"  said  Lady  Franks.  "Why,  what  more  could 
a  man  want  from  life?     He  could  never  expect  so  much." 

"Yes,  my  dear.  I  am  a.  proud  man.  Three  countries  have 
honoured  me — "    There  was  a  little,  breathless  pause. 

"And  not  more  than  they  ought  to  have  done,"  said  Sybil. 

"Well!  Well!  I  shall  have  my  head  turned.  Let  me  re- 
turn to  my  own  humble  self.  I  am  too  much  in  the  stars  at 
the  moment." 

Sir  William  turned  to  Arthur  to  have  his  decorations  re- 
moved. Aaron,  standing  in  the  background,  felt  the  whole 
scene  strange,  childish,  a  little  touching.  And  Lady  Franks 
was  so  obviously  trying  to  console  her  husband:  to  console 
the  frail,  excitable  old  man  with  his  honours.  But  why  con- 
sole him?  Did  he  need  consolation?  And  did  she?  It  was 
evident  that  only  the  hard-money  woman  in  her  put  any 
price  on  the  decorations. 

Aaron  came  forward  and  examined  the  orders,  one  after 
the  other.  Just  metal  playthings  of  curious  shiny  silver  and 
gilt  and  enamel.  Heavy  the  British  one — but  only  like  some 
heavy  buckle,  a  piece  of  metal  merely  when  one  turned  it 
over.  Somebody  dropped  the  Italian  cross,  and  there  was 
a  moment  of  horror.  But  the  lump  of  metal  took  no  hurt. 
Queer  to  see  the  things  stowed  in  their  boxes  again.  Aaron 
had  always  imagined  these  mysterious  decorations  as  shining 
by  nature  on  the  breasts  of  heroes.  Pinned-on  pieces  of  metal 
were  a  considerable  come-down. 

The  orders  were  put  away,  the  party  sat  round  the  fire  in 
the  comfortable  library,  the  men  sipping  more  creme  de 
menthe,  since  nothmg  else  offered,  and  the  couple  of  hours 


i66  AARON'S  ROD 

in  front  promising  the  tedium  of  small-talk  of  tedious  people 
who  had  really  nothing  to  say  and  no  particular  originality  in 
saying  it. 

Aaron,  however,  had  reckoned  without  his  host.  Sir 
William  sat  upright  in  his  chair,  with  all  the  determination  of 
a  frail  old  man  who  insists  on  being  level  with  the  young. 
The  new  guest  sat  in  a  lower  chair,  smoking,  that  curious 
glimmer  on  his  face  which  made  him  so  attractive,  and  which 
only  meant  that  he  was  looking  on  the  whole  scene  from  the 
outside,  as  it  were,  from  beyond  a  fence.  Sir  William  came 
almost  directly  to  the  attack. 

"And  so,  Mr.  Sisson,  you  have  no  definite  purpose  in  com- 
ing to  Italy?" 

"No,  none,"  said  Aaron.    "I  wanted  to  join  Lilly." 

"But  when  you  had  joined  him — ?" 

"Oh,  nothing — stay  here  a  time,  in  this  country,  if  I  could 
earn  my  keep." 

"Ah! — earn  your  keep?  So  you  hope  to  earn  your  keep 
here?     May  I  ask  how?" 

"By  my  flute." 

"Italy  is  a  poor  country." 

"I  don't  want  much." 

"You  have  a  family  to  provide  for." 

"They  are  provided  for — for  a  couple  of  years." 

"Oh,  indeed!     Is  that  so?" 

The  old  man  got  out  of  Aaron  the  detailed  account  of  his 
circumstances — how  he  had  left  so  much  money  to  be  paid 
over  to  his  wife,  and  had  received  only  a  small  amount  for 
himself. 

"I  see  you  are  like  Lilly — ^you  trust  to  Providence,"  said 
Sir  William. 

"Providence  or  fate,"  said  Aaron. 

"Lilly  calls  it  Providence,"  said  Sir  William.  "For  my 
own  part,  I  always  advise  Providence  plus  a  banking  account. 
I  have  every  belief  in  Providence,  plus  a  banking  account. 
Providence  and  no  banking  account  I  have  observed  to  be 
almost  invariably  fatal.  Lilly  and  I  have  argued  it.  He 
believes  in  casting  his  bread  upon  the  waters,    I  sincerely 


NOVARA  167 

hope  he  won't  have  to  cast  himself  after  his  bread,  one  of 
these  days.  Providence  with  a  banking  account.  Believe  in 
Providence  once  you  have  secured  enough  to  live  on.  I 
should  consider  it  disastrous  to  believe  in  Providence  before. 
One  can  never  be  sure  of  Providence." 

"What  can  you  be  sure  of,  then?"  said  Aaron. 

"Well,  in  moderation,  I  can  believe  in  a  little  hard  cash, 
and  in  my  own  ability  to  earn  a  little  hard  cash." 

"Perhaps  Lilly  believes  in  his  own  ability,  too." 

"No.  Not  so.  Because  he  will  never  directly  work  to 
earn  money.  He  works — and  works  quite  well,  I  am  told: 
but  only  as  the  spirit  moves  him,  and  never  with  any  eye  to 
the  market.  Now  I  call  that  tempting  Providence,  myself. 
The  spirit  may  move  him  in  quite  an  opposite  direction  to 
the  market — then  where  is  Lilly?  I  have  put  it  to  him  more 
than  once." 

"The  spirit  generally  does  move  him  dead  against  the 
market,"  said  Aaron.     "But  he  manages  to  scrape  along." 

"In  a  state  of  jeopardy:  all  the  time  in  a  state  of  jeopardy," 
said  the  old  man.  "His  whole  existence,  and  that  of  his  wife, 
is  completely  precarious.  I  found,  in  my  youth,  the  spirit 
moved  me  to  various  things  which  would  have  left  me  and 
my  wife  starving.  So  I  realised  in  time,  this  was  no  good. 
I  took  my  spirit  in  hand,  therefore,  and  made  him  pull  the 
cart  which  mankind  is  riding  in.  I  harnessed  him  to  the 
work  of  productive  labour.  And  so  he  brought  me  my  re- 
ward." 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron.  "But  every  man  according  to  his  be- 
lief." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Sir  William,  "how  a  man  can  believe 
in  a  Providence  unless  he  sets  himself  definitely  to  the  work 
of  earning  his  daily  bread,  and  making  provision  for  future 
needs.  That's  what  Providence  means  to  me — making  pro- 
vision for  oneself  and  one's  family.  Now,  Mr.  Lilly — and 
you  yourself — you  say  you  believe  in  a  Providence  that  does 
not  compel  you  to  earn  your  daily  bread,  and  make  provision. 
I  confess  myself  I  cannot  see  it:  and  Lilly  has  never  been 
able  to  convince  me.'* 


i68  AARON'S  ROD 

"I  don't  believe  in  a  kind-hearted  Providence,"  said  Aaron, 
"and  I  don't  believe  Lilly  does.  But  I  believe  in  chance.  I 
believe,  if  I  go  my  own  way,  without  tying  my  nose  to  a  job, 
chance  will  always  throw  something  in  my  way:  enough  to 
get  along  with." 

"But  on  what  do  you  base  such  a  very  unwarrantable  be- 
lief?" 

"I  just  feel  like  that." 

"And  if  you  are  ever  quite  without  success — and  nothing 
to  fall  back  on?" 

"I  can  work  at  something." 

"In  case  of  illness,  for  example?" 

"I  can  go  to  a  hospital — or  die." 

"Dear  me!  However,  you  are  more  logical  than  Lilly. 
He  seems  to  believe  that  he  has  the  Invisible — call  it  Provi- 
dence if  you  will — on  his  side,  and  that  this  Invisible  will 
never  leave  him  in  the  lurch,  or  let  him  down,  so  long  as  he 
sticks  to  his  own  side  of  the  bargain,  and  never  works  for  his 
own  ends.  I  don't  quite  see  how  he  works.  Certainly  he 
seems  to  me  a  man  who  squanders  a  great  deal  of  talent  un- 
worthily. Yet  for  some  reason  or  other  he  calls  this  true, 
genuine  activity,  and  has  a  contempt  for  actual  work  by  which 
a  man  makes  provision  for  his  years  and  for  his  family.  In 
the  end,  he  will  have  to  fall  back  on  charity.  But  when  I 
say  so,  he  denies  it,  and  says  that  in  the  end  we,  the  men  who 
work  and  make  provision,  will  have  to  fall  back  on  him. 
Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  so  far  he  is  in  far  greater  danger 
of  having  to  fall  back  on  me,  than  I  on  him." 

The  old  man  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  a  little  laugh  of 
triumph.  But  it  smote  almost  devilishly  on  Aaron's  ears, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  that  there  existed  a 
necessity  for  taking  sides. 

"I  don't  suppose  he  will  do  much  falling  back,"  he  said. 

"Well,  he  is  young  yet.  You  are  both  young.  You  are 
squandering  your  youth.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  I  see  the 
end." 

"What  end.  Sir  William?" 

"Charity — and  poverty — and  some  not  very  congenial  'job,' 


NOVARA  169 

as  you  call  it,  to  put  bread  in  your  mouth.  No,  no,  I  would 
not  like  to  trust  myself  to  your  Providence,  or  to  your  Chance. 
Though  I  admit  your  Chance  is  a  sounder  proposition  than 
Lilly's  Providence.  You  speculate  with  your  life  and  your 
talent.  I  admit  the  nature  which  is  a  born  speculator.  After 
all,  with  your  flute,  you  will  speculate  in  other  people's  taste 
for  luxury,  as  a  man  may  speculate  in  theatres  or  trains  de 
luxe.  You  are  the  speculator.  That  may  be  your  way  of 
wisdom.  But  Lilly  does  not  even  speculate.  I  cannot  see 
his  point.  I  cannot  see  his  point.  I  cannot  see  his  point. 
Yet  I  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  his  mentality." 

The  old  man  had  fired  up  during  this  conversation — and 
all  the  others  in  the  room  had  gone  silent.  Lady  Franks 
was  palpably  uneasy.  She  alone  knew  how  frail  the  old  man 
was — frailer  by  far  than  his  years.  She  alone  knew  what 
fear  of  his  own  age,  what  fear  of  death  haunted  him  now: 
fear  of  his  own  non-existence.  His  own  old  age  was  an  agony 
to  him;  worse  than  an  agony,  a  horror.  He  wanted  to  be 
young — to  live,  to  live.  And  he  was  old,  he  was  breaking  up. 
The  glistening  youth  of  Aaron,  the  impetuousness  of  Lilly 
fascinated  him.  And  both  these  men  seemed  calmly  to  con- 
tradict his  own  wealth  and  honours. 

Lady  Franks  tried  to  turn  off  the  conversation  to  the 
trickles  of  normal  chit-chat.  The  Colonel  was  horribly  bored 
— so  were  all  the  women — Arthur  was  indifferent.  Only  the 
young  Major  was  implicated,  troubled  in  his  earnest  and 
philosophic  spirit. 

"What  I  can't  see,"  he  said,  "is  the  place  that  others  have 
in  your  scheme." 

"Is  isn't  a  scheme,"  said  Aaron. 

"Well  then,  your  way  of  life.  Isn't  it  pretty  selfish,  to 
marry  a  woman  and  then  expect  her  to  live  on  very  little 
indeed,  and  that  always  precarious,  just  because  you  hap- 
pen to  believe  in  Providence  or  in  Chance:  which  I  think 
worse?  What  I  don't  see  is  where  others  come  in.  What 
would  the  world  be  like  if  everybody  lived  that  way?" 

"Other  people  can  please  themselves,"  said  Aaron. 

"No,  they  can't — because  you  take  first  choice,  it  seems  to 


i7o  AARON'S  ROD 

me.  Supposing  your  wife — or  Lilly's  wife — asks  for  secur- 
ity and  for  provision,  as  Sir  William  says.  Surely  she  has 
a  right  to  it." 

*lf  IVe  no  right  to  it  myself — and  I  have  no  right  to  it, 
if  I  don't  want  it — then  what  right  has  she?" 

"Every  right,  I  should  say.  All  the  more  since  you  are 
improvident." 

"Then  she  must  manage  her  rights  for  herself.  It's  no 
good  her  foisting  her  rights  on  to  me." 

"Isn't  that  pure  selfishness?" 

"It  may  be.  I  shall  send  my  wife  money  as  long  as  I've 
money  to  send." 

"And  supposing  you  have  none?" 

"Then  I  can't  send  it — and  she  must  look  out  for  her- 
self." 

"I  call  that  almost  criminal  selfishness." 

"I  can't  help  it." 

The  conversation  with  the  young  Major  broke  off. 

"It  is  certainly  a  good  thing  for  society  that  men  like 
you  and  Mr.  Lilly  are  not  common,"  said  Sir  William, 
laughing. 

"Becoming  commoner  every  day,  you'll  find,"  interjacu- 
lated the  Colonel. 

"Indeed!  Indeed!  Well.  May  we  ask  you  another 
question,  Mr.  Sisson?  I  hope  you  don't  object  to  our  cate- 
chism?" 

"No.  Nor  your  judgment  afterwards,"  said  Aaron,  grin- 
ning. 

"Then  upon  what  grounds  did  you  abandon  your  family? 
I  know  it  is  a  tender  subject.  But  Lilly  spoke  of  it  to  us, 
and  as  far  I  could  see.  .  .  ." 

"There  were  no  grounds,"  said  Aaron.  "No,  there  weren't 
I  just  left  them." 

"Mere  caprice?" 

"If  it's  a  caprice  to  be  begotten — and  a  caprice  to  be  born 
— and  a  caprice  to  die — then  that  was  a  caprice,  for  it  was 
the  same." 

"Like  birth  or  death?    I  don't  follow." 


NOVARA  171 

"It  happened  to  me:  as  birth  happened  to  me  once — and 
death  will  happen.  It  was  a  sort  of  death,  too:  or  a  sort  of 
birth.  But  as  undeniable  as  either.  And  without  any  more 
grounds.'* 

The  old,  tremulous  man,  and  the  young  man  were  watch- 
ing one  another. 

"A  natural  event,"  said  Sir  William. 

"A  natural  event,"  said  Aaron. 

"Not  that  you  loved  any  other  woman?" 

"God  save  me  from  it." 

"You  just  left  off  loving?" 

"Not  even  that.    I  went  away." 

"What  from?" 

"From  it  all." 

"From  the  woman  in  particular?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Yes.    Yes,  that." 

"And  you  couldn't  go  back?" 

Aaron  shook  his  head. 

"Yet  you  can  give  no  reasons?" 

"Not  any  reasons  that  would  be  any  good.  It  wasn't  a 
question  of  reasons.  It  was  a  question  of  her  and  me  and 
what  must  be.  What  makes  a  child  be  bom  out  of  its  mother, 
to  the  pain  and  trouble  of  both  of  them?     I  don't  know." 

"But  that  is  a  natural  process." 

"So  is  this — or  nothing." 

"No,"  interposed  the  Major.  "Because  birth  is  a  universal 
process — and  yours  is  a  specific,  almost  unique  event." 

"Well,  unique  or  not,  it  so  came  about.  I  didn't  even 
leave  off  loving  her — not  as  far  as  I  know.  I  left  her  as  I 
shall  leave  the  earth  when  I  die — because  it  has  to  be." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think  it  is,  Mr.  Sisson?"  put  in 
Lady  Franks.  "I  think  you  are  just  in  a  wicked  state  of 
mind:  just  that.  Mr.  Lilly,  too.  And  you  must  be  very 
careful,  or  some  great  misfortune  will  happen  to  you." 

"It  may,"  said  Aaron. 

"And  it  will,  mark  my  word,  it  will." 

"You  almost  wish  it  might,  as  a  judgment  on  me,"  smiled 
Aaron. 


172  AARON'S  ROD 

"Oh,  no,  indeed.  I  should  only  be  too  sorry.  But  I  feel 
it  will,  unless  you  are  careful." 

"ni  be  careful,  then." 

"Yes,  and  you  can't  be  too  careful." 

"You  make  me  frightened." 

"I  would  like  to  make  you  very  frightened  indeed,  so  that 
you  went  back  humbly  to  your  wife  and  family." 

"It  would  have  to  be  a  big  fright  then,  I  assure  you." 

"Ah,  you  are  really  heartless.    It  makes  me  angry." 

She  turned  angrily  aside. 

"Well,  well!  Well,  well!  Life!  Life!  Young  men  are 
a  new  thing  to  me!"  said  Sir  William,  shaking  his  head. 
"Well,  well!  What  do  you  say  to  whiskey  and  soda.  Colo- 
nel?" 

"Why,  delighted,  Sir  William,"  said  the  Colonel,  bounc- 
ing up. 

"A  night-cap,  and  then  we  retire,"  said  Lady  Franks. 

Aaron  sat  thinking.  He  knew  Sir  William  liked  him:  and 
that  Lady  Franks  didn't.  One  day  he  might  have  to  seek 
help  from  Sir  William.  So  he  had  better  placate  milady. 
Wrinkling  the  fine,  half  mischievous  smile  on  his  face,  and 
trading  on  his  charm,  he  turned  to  his  hostess. 

"You  wouldn't  mind.  Lady  Franks,  if  I  said  nasty  things 
about  my  wife  and  found  a  lot  of  fault  with  her.  What 
makes  you  angry  is  that  I  know  it  is  not  a  bit  more  her 
fault  than  mine,  that  we  come  apart.    It  can't  be  helped." 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed.  I  disapprove  of  your  way  of  looking 
at  things  altogether.  It  seems  to  me  altogether  cold  and 
unmanly  and  inhuman.  Thank  goodness  my  experience  of 
a  man  has  been  different." 

"We  can't  all  be  alike,  can  we?  And  if  I  don't  choose  to 
let  you  see  me  crying,  that  doesn't  prove  I've  never  had  a 
bad  half  hour,  does  it?     I've  had  many — ay,  and  a  many." 

"Then  why, are  you  so  wrong,  so  wrong  in  your  behaviour?" 

"I  suppose  I've  got  to  have  my  bout  out:  and  when  it^s 
out,  I  can  alter." 

"Then  I  hope  you've  almost  had  your  bout  out,"  she  said. 

"So  do  I,"  said  he,  with  a  half-repentant,  half-depressed 


NOVARA  173 

look   on   his   attractive   face.    The   corners  of   his   mouth 
grimaced  slightly  under  his  moustache. 

"The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  go  straight  back  to  Eng- 
land, and  to  her." 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  ask  her  if  she  wants  me,  first,"  he 
said  drily. 

"Yes,  you  might  do  that,  too."  And  Lady  Franks  felt 
she  was  quite  getting  on  with  her  work  of  reform,  and  the 
restoring  of  woman  to  her  natural  throne.  Best  not  go  too 
fast,  either. 

"Say  when,"  shouted  the  Colonel,  who  was  manipulating 
the  syphon. 

"When,"  said  Aaron. 

The  men  stood  up  to  their  drinks. 

"Will  you  be  leaving  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Sisson?"  asked 
Lady  Franks. 

"May  I  stay  till  Monday  morning?"  said  Aaron.  They 
were  at  Saturday  evening. 

"Certainly.  And  you  will  take  breakfast  in  your  room: 
we  all  do.    At  what  time?     Half  past  eight?" 

"Thank  you  very  much." 

"Then  at  half  past  eight  the  man  will  bring  it  in.  Good- 
night." 

Once  more  in  his  blue  silk  bedroom,  Aaron  grimaced  to 
himself  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  grimacing.  His 
hostess^  admonitions  were  like  vitriol  in  his  ears.  He  looked 
out  of  the  window.  Through  the  darkness  of  trees,  the  lights 
of  a  city  below.  Italy!  The  air  was  cold  with  snow.  He 
came  back  into  his  soft,  warm  room.  Luxurious  it  was.  And 
luxurious  the  deep,  warm  bed. 

He  was  still  asleep  when  the  man  came  noiselessly  in  with 
the  tray:  and  it  was  morning.  Aaron  woke  and  sat  up.  He 
felt  that  the  deep,  warm  bed,  and  the  soft,  warm  room  had 
made  him  sleep  too  well:  robbed  him  of  his  night,  like  a 
narcotic.  He  preferred  to  be  more  uncomfortable  and  more 
aware  of  the  flight  of  the  dark  hours.    It  seemed  numbing. 

The  footman  in  his  grey  house-jacket  was  neat  and  Italian 
and  sympathising.    He  gave  good-morning  in  Italian— then 


174  AARON'S  ROD 

softly  arranged  the  little  table  by  the  bedside,  and  put  out 
the  toast  and  coffee  and  butter  and  boiled  egg  and  honey, 
with  silver  and  delicate  china.  Aaron  watched  the  soft, 
catlike  motions  of  the  man.  The  dark  eyes  glanced  once 
at  the  blond  man,  leaning  on  his  elbow  on  the  pillow.  Aaron's 
face  had  that  watchful,  half-amused  expression.  The  man 
said  something  in  Italian.  Aaron  shook  his  head,  laughed, 
and  said: 

^'Tell  me  in  English." 

The  man  went  softly  to  the  window  curtains,  and  motioned 
them  with  his  hand. 

"Yes,  do,"  said  Aaron. 

So  the  man  drew  the  buff-coloured  silk  curtains:  and 
Aaron,  sitting  in  bed,  could  see  away  beyond  red  roofs  of  a 
town,  and  in  the  further  heaven  great  snowy  mountains. 

*'The  Alps,"  he  said  in  surprise. 

"Gli  Alpi — si,  signore."  The  man  bowed,  gathered  up 
Aaron's  clothes,  and  silently  retired. 

Aaron  watched  through  the  window.  It  was  a  frosty  morn- 
ing at  the  end  of  September,  with  a  clear  blue  morning-sky, 
Alpine,  and  the  watchful,  snow-streaked  mountain  tops 
bunched  in  the  distance,  as  if  waiting.  There  they  were,  hov- 
ering round,  circling,  waiting.  They  reminded  him  of  mar- 
vellous striped  sky-panthers  circling  round  a  great  camp: 
the  red-roofed  city.  Aaron  looked,  and  looked  again.  In 
the  near  distance,  under  the  house  elm-tree  tops  were  yel- 
lowing.    He  felt  himself  changing  inside  his  skin. 

So  he  turned  away  to  his  coffee  and  eggs.  A  little  silver 
egg-cup  with  a  curious  little  frill  round  it:  honey  in  a  frail, 
iridescent  glass  bowl,  gold-iridescent:  the  charm  of  delicate 
and  fine  things.  He  smiled  half  mockingly  to  himself.  Two 
instincts  played  in  him:  the  one,  an  instinct  for  fine,  delicate 
things:  he  had  attractive  hands;  the  other,  an  inclination  to 
throw  the  dainty  little  table  with  all  its  niceties  out  of  the 
window.    It  evoked  a  sort  of  devil  in  him. 

He  took  his  bath:  the  man  had  brought  back  his  things:  ^ 
he  dressed  and  went  downstairs.    No  one  in  the  lounge:  he 
went  down  to  the  ground  floor:  no  one  in  the  big  hall  with 


NO  VARA  175 

its  pillars  of  yellow  marble  and  its  gold  arches,  its  enormous, 
dark,  bluey-red  carpet.  He  stood  before  the  great  glass 
doors.  Some  red  flowers  still  were  blooming  in  the  tubs  on 
the  steps,  handsome:  and  beautiful  chrysanthemums  in  the 
wide  portico.  Beyond,  yellow  leaves  were  already  falling  on 
the  green  grass  and  the  neat  drive.  Everywhere  was  silent 
and  empty.  He  climbed  the  wide  stairs,  sat  in  the  long,  upper 
lounge  where  the  papers  were.  He  wanted  his  hat  and  coat, 
and  did  not  know  where  to  find  them.  The  windows  looked 
on  to  a  terraced  garden,  the  hill  rising  steeply  behind  the 
house.    He  wanted  to  go  out. 

So  he  opened  more  doors,  and  in  a  long  drawing-room  came 
upon  five  or  six  manservants,  all  in  the  grey  house-jackets,  all 
clean-shaven,  neat,  with  neat  black  hair,  all  with  dusters  or 
brushes  or  feather  brooms,  and  all  frolicking,  chattering,  play- 
ing like  so  many  monkeys.  They  were  all  of  the  same  neat, 
smallish  size.  They  were  all  laughing.  They  rolled  back 
a  great  rug  as  if  it  were  some  football  game,  one  flew  at  the 
curtains.  And  they  merely  looked  at  Aaron  and  went  on 
chattering,  and  laughing  and  dusting. 

Surprised,  and  feeling  that  he  trespassed,  he  stood  at  the 
window  a  moment  looking  out.  The  noise  went  on  behind 
him.  So  he  turned,  smiling,  and  asked  for  his  hat,  pointing 
to  his  head.  They  knew  at  once  what  he  wanted.  One  of 
the  fellows  beckoned  him  away,  down  to  the  hall  and  to  the 
long  cupboard  place  where  hats  and  coats  and  sticks  were 
hung.  There  was  his  hat;  he  put  it  on,  while  the  man  chat- 
tered to  him  pleasantly  and  unintelligibly,  and  opened  for 
him  the  back  door,  into  the  garden. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT 

The  fresh  morning  air  comes  startling  after  a  central- 
heated  house.  So  Aaron  found  it.  He  felt  himself  dashing 
up  the  steps  into  the  garden  like  a  bird  dashing  out  of  a  trap 
where  it  has  been  caught:  that  warm  and  luxurious  house. 
Heaven  bless  us,  we  who  want  to  save  civilisation.  We  had 
better  make  up  our  minds  what  of  it  we  want  to  save.  The 
kernel  may  be  all  well  and  good.  But  there  is  precious  little 
kernel,  to  a  lot  of  woolly  stuffing  and  poisonous  rind. 

The  gardens  to  Sir  William's  place  were  not  imposing,  and 
still  rather  war-neglected.  But  the  pools  of  water  lay 
smooth  in  the  bright  air,  the  flowers  showed  their  colours 
beside  the  walks.  Many  birds  dashed  about,  rather  bewil- 
dered, having  crossed  the  Alps  in  their  migration  southwards. 
Aaron  noted  with  gratification  a  certain  big  magnificence,  a 
certain  reckless  powerfulness  in  the  still-blossoming,  harsh- 
coloured,  autumn  flowers.  Distinct  satisfaction  he  derived 
from  it. 

He  wandered  upwards,  up  the  succeeding  flights  of  steps, 
till  he  came  to  the  upper  rough  hedge,  and  saw  the  wild  copse 
on  the  hill-crest  just  above.  Passing  through  a  space  in  the 
hedge,  he  climbed  the  steep  last  bit  of  Sir  William's  land. 
It  was  a  little  vineyard,  with  small  vines  and  yellowing  leaves. 
Everywhere  the  place  looked  neglected— but  as  if  man  had 
just  begun  to  tackle  it  once  more. 

At  the  very  top,  by  the  wild  hedge  where  spindle-berries 
hung  pink,  seats  were  placed,  and  from  here  the  view  was 
very  beautiful.  The  hill  dropped  steep  beneath  him.  A  river 
wound  on  the  near  side  of  the  city,  crossed  by  a  white  bridge. 
The  city  lay  close  clustered,  ruddy  on  the  plains,  glittering 
in  the  clear  air  with  its  flat  roofs  and  domes  and  square 

176 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  177 

towers,  strangely  naked-seeming  in  the  clear,  clean  air.  And 
massive  in  the  further  nearness,  snow-streaked  mountains,  the 
tiger-like  Alps.  Tigers  prowling  between  the  north  and  the 
south.  And  this  beautiful  city  lying  nearest  exposed.  The 
snow-wind  brushed  her  this  morning  like  the  icy  whiskers 
of  a  tiger.  And  clear  in  the  light  lay  Novara,  wide,  fearless, 
violent  Novara.  Beautiful  the  perfect  air,  the  perfect  and 
unblemished  Alp-sky.  And  like  the  first  southern  flower, 
Novara. 

Aaron  sat  watching  in  silence.  Only  the  uneasy  birds 
rustled.  He  watched  the  city  and  the  winding  river,  the 
bridges,  and  the  imminent  Alps.  He  was  on  the  south  side. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  time  barrier.  His  old,  sleepy  Eng- 
lish nature  was  startled  in  its  sleep.  He  felt  like  a  man  who 
knows  it  is  time  to  wake  up,  and  who  doesn't  want  to  wake 
up,  to  face  the  responsibility  of  another  sort  of  day. 

To  open  his  darkest  eyes  and  wake  up  to  a  new  responsi- 
bility. Wake  up  and  enter  on  the  responsibility  of  a  new 
self  in  himself.  Ach,  the  horror  of  responsibility!  He  had  all 
his  life  slept  and  shelved  the  burden.  And  he  wanted  to  go 
on  sleeping.  It  was  so  hateful  to  have  to  get  a  new  grip  on 
his  own  bowels,  a  new  hard  recklessness  into  his  heart,  a  new 
and  responsible  consciousness  into  his  mind  and  soul.  He 
felt  some  finger  prodding,  prodding,  prodding  him  awake  out 
of  the  sleep  of  pathos  and  tragedy  and  spasmodic  passion, 
and  he  wriggled,  unwilling,  oh,  most  unwilling  to  undertake 
the  new  business. 

In  fact  he  ran  away  again.  He  gave  a  last  look  at  the 
town  and  its  white-fanged  mountains,  and  descended  through 
the  garden,  round  the  way  of  the  kitchen  garden  and  garage 
and  stables  and  pecking  chickens,  back  to  the  house  again. 
In  the  hall  still  no  one.  He  went  upstairs  to  the  long  lounge. 
There  sat  the  rubicund,  bald,  boy-like  Colonel  reading  the 
Graphic.  Aaron  sat  down  opposite  him,  and  made  a  feeble 
attempt  at  conversation.  But  the  Colonel  wasn't  having  any. 
It  was  evident  he  didn't  care  for  the  fellow — Mr.  Aaron,  that 
is.  Aaron  therefore  dried  up,  and  began  to  sit  him  out,  with 
the  aid  of  The  Queen,    Came  a  servant,  however,  and  said 


178  AARON'S  ROD 

that  the  Signer  Colonello  was  called  up  from  the  hospital,  on 
the  telephone.  The  Colonel  once  departed,  Aaron  fled 
again,  this  time  out  of  the  front  doors,  and  down  the  steep 
little  park  to  the  gates. 

Huge  dogs  and  little  dogs  came  bounding  forward.  Out 
of  the  lodge  came  the  woman  with  the  keys,  smiling  very 
pleasantly  this  morning.  So,  he  was  in  the  street.  The  wide 
road  led  him  inevitably  to  the  big  bridge,  with  the  violent, 
physical  stone  statue-groups.  Men  and  women  were  moving 
about,  and  he  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  littleness  and 
the  momentaneousness  of  the  Italians  in  the  street.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  wideness  of  the  bridge  and  the  subsequent  big,  open 
boulevard.  But  there  it  was:  the  people  seemed  little,  up- 
right brisk  figures  moving  in  a  certain  isolation,  like  tiny 
figures  on  a  big  stage.  And  he  felt  himself  moving  in  the 
space  between.  All  the  northern  cosiness  gone.  He  was  set 
down  with  a  space  round  him. 

Little  trams  flitted  down  the  boulevard  in  the  bright,  sweet 
light.  The  barbers'  shops  were  all  busy,  half  the  Novarese 
at  that  moment  ambushed  in  lather,  full  in  the  public  gaze. 
A  shave  is  nothing  if  not  a  public  act,  in  the  south.  At  the 
little  outdoor  tables  of  the  cafes  a  very  few  drinkers  sat  before 
empty  coffee-cups.  Most  of  the  shops  were  shut.  It  was 
too  soon  after  the  war  for  life  to  be  flowing  very  fast.  The 
feeling  of  emptiness,  of  neglect,  of  lack  of  supplies  was  evi- 
dent everywhere. 

Aaron  strolled  on,  surprised  himself  at  his  gallant  feeling 
of  liberty:  a  feeling  of  bravado  and  almost  swaggering  care- 
lessness which  is  Italy's  best  gift  to  an  Englishman.  He  had 
crossed  the  dividing  line,  and  the  values  of  life,  though  os- 
tensibly and  verbally  the  same,  were  dynamically  different. 
Alas,  however,  the  verbal  and  the  ostensible,  the  accursed 
mechanical  ideal  gains  day  by  day  over  the  spontaneous  life- 
dynamic,  so  that  Italy  becomes  as  idea-bound  and  as  auto- 
matic as  England:  just  a  business  proposition. 

Coming  to  the  station,  he  went  inside.  There  he  saw  a 
money-changing  window  which  was  open,  so  he  planked  down 
a  five-pound  note  and  got  two-hundred-and-ten  lire.     Here 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  179 

was  a  start.  At  a  bookstall  he  saw  a  man  buy  a  big  time- 
table with  a  large  railway  map  in  it.  He  immediately  bought 
the  same.    Then  he  retired  to  a  corner  to  get  his  whereabouts. 

In  the  morning  he  must  move:  where?  He  looked  on  the 
map.  The  map  seemed  to  offer  two  alternatives,  Milan  and 
Genoa.  He  chose  Milan,  because  of  its  musical  associations 
and  its  cathedral.  Milano  then.  Strolling  and  still  strolling, 
he  found  the  boards  announcing  Arrivals  and  Departures. 
As  far  as  he  could  make  out,  the  train  for  Milan  left  at  9:00 
in  the  morning. 

So  much  achieved,  he  left  the  big  desolating  caravanserai 
of  the  station.  Soldiers  were  camped  in  every  corner,  lying 
in  heaps  asleep.  In  their  grey-green  uniform,  he  was  sur- 
prised at  their  sturdy  limbs  and  uniformly  short  stature.  For 
the  first  time,  he  saw  the  cock-feathers  of  the  Bersaglieri. 
There  seemed  a  new  life-quality  everywhere.  Many  worlds, 
not  one  world.  But  alas,  the  one  world  triumphing  more  and 
more  over  the  many  worlds,  the  big  oneness  swallowing  up 
the  many  small  diversities  in  its  insatiable  gnawing  appetite, 
leaving  a  dreary  sameness  throughout  the  world,  that  means  at 
last  complete  sterility. 

Aaron,  however,  was  too  new  to  the  strangeness,  he  had 
no  eye  for  the  horrible  sameness  that  was  spreading  like  a 
disease  over  Italy  from  England  and  the  north.  He  plunged 
into  the  space  in  front  of  the  station,  and  took  a  new,  wide 
boulevard.  To  his  surprise  he  ran  towards  a  big  and  over- 
animated  statue  that  stood  resolutely  with  its  back  to  the  mag- 
nificent snow-domes  of  the  wild  Alps.  Wolves  in  the  street 
could  not  have  startled  him  more  than  those  magnificent 
fierce-gleaming  mountains  of  snow  at  the  street-end,  beyond 
the  statue.  He  stood  and  wondered,  and  never  thought  to 
look  who  the  gentleman  was.  Then  he  turned  right  round, 
and  began  to  walk  home. 

Luncheon  was  at  one  o'clock.  It  was  half-past  twelve  when 
he  rang  at  the  lodge  gates.  He  climbed  through  the  leaves 
of  the  little  park,  on  a  side-path,  rather  reluctantly  towards 
the  house.  In  the  hall  Lady  Franks  was  discussing  with 
Arthur  a  fat  Pekinese  who  did  not  seem  very  well.    She 


i8o  AARON'S  ROD 

was  sure  the  servants  did  not  obey  her  orders  concerning  the 
Pekinese  bitch.  Arthur,  who  was  more  than  indifferent,  as- 
sured her  they  did.  But  she  seemed  to  think  that  the  whole 
of  the  male  human  race  was  in  league  against  the  miserable 
specimen  of  a  she-dog.  She  almost  cried,  thinking  her 
Queenie  might  by  some  chance  meet  with,  perhaps,  a  harsh 
word  or  look.  Queenie  apparently  fattened  on  the  secret  de- 
testation of  the  male  human  species. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  that  a  dumb  creature  might  be  ill- 
treated,"  she  said  to  Aaron.  "Thank  goodness  the  Italians 
are  better  than  they  used  to  be." 

"Are  they  better  than  they  used  to  be?" 

"Oh,  much.    They  have  learnt  it  from  us." 

She  then  enquired  if  her  guest  had  slept,  and  if  he  were 
rested  from  his  journey.  Aaron,  into  whose  face  the  faint 
snow-wind  and  the  sun  had  brought  a  glow,  replied  that  he 
had  slept  well  and  enjoyed  the  morning,  thank  you.  Where- 
upon Lady  Franks  knitted  her  brows  and  said  Sir  William 
had  had  such  a  bad  night.  He  had  not  been  able  to  sleep, 
and  had  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room.  The  least  ex- 
citement, and  she  dreaded  a  break-down.  He  must  have  ab- 
solute calm  and  restfulness. 

"There's  one  for  you  and  your  jawing  last  night,  Aaron, 
my  boy!"  said  our  hero  to  himself. 

"I  thought  Sir  William  seemed  so  full  of  life  and  energy," 
he  said,  aloud. 

"Ah,  did  you!  No,  he  wants  to  be.  But  he  can't  do  it. 
He's  very  much  upset  this  morning.  I  have  been  very  anx- 
ious about  him." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that." 

Lady  Franks  departed  to  some  duty.  Aaron  sat  alone  be- 
fore the  fire«  It  was  a  huge  fireplace,  like  a  dark  chamber 
shut  in  by  tall,  finely-wrought  iron  gates.  Behind  these  iron 
gates  of  curly  iron  the  logs  burned  and  flickered  like  leopards 
slumbering  and  lifting  their  heads  within  their  cage.  Aaron 
wondered  who  v/as  the  keeper  of  the  savage  element,  who  it 
was  that  would  open  the  iron  grille  and  throw  on  another 
log,  like  meat  to  the  lions.    To  be  sure  the  fire  was  only  to 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  i8i 

be  looked  at:  like  wild  beasts  in  the  Zoo.  For  the  house 
was  warm  from  roof  to  floor.  It  was  strange  to  see  the  blue 
air  of  sunlight  outside,  the  yellow-edged  leaves  falling  in  the 
wind,  the  red  flowers  shaking. 

The  gong  sounded  softly  through  the  house.  The  Colonel 
came  in  heartily  from  the  garden,  but  did  not  speak  to  Aaron. 
The  Major  and  his  wife  came  pallid  down  the  stairs.  Lady 
Franks  appeared,  talking  domestic-secretarial  business  with 
the  wife  of  Arthur.  Arthur,  well-nourished  and  half  at  home, 
called  down  the  stairs.  And  then  Sir  William  descended,  old 
and  frail  now  in  the  morning,  shaken:  still  he  approached 
Aaron  heartily,  and  asked  him  how  he  did,  and  how  he  had 
spent  his  morning.  The  old  man  who  had  made  a  fortune: 
how  he  expected  homage:  and  how  he  got  it!  Homage,  like 
most  things,  is  just  a  convention  and  a  social  trick.  Aaron 
found  himself  paying  homage,  too,  to  the  old  man  who  had 
made  a  fortune.  But  also,  exacting  a  certain  deference  in 
return,  from  the  old  man  who  had  made  a  fortune.  Getting 
it,  too.  On  what  grounds?  Youth,  maybe.  But  mostly, 
scorn  for  fortunes  and  fortune-making.  Did  he  scorn  for- 
tunes and  fortune-making?  Not  he,  otherwise  whence  this 
homage  for  the  old  man  with  much  money?  Aaron,  like 
everybody  else,  was  rather  paralysed  by  a  million  sterling, 
personified  in  one  old  man.  Paralysed,  fascinated,  overcome. 
All  those  three.  Only  having  no  final  control  over  his  own 
make-up,  he  could  not  drive  himself  into  the  money-making 
or  even  into  the  money-having  habit.  And  he  had  just  wit 
enough  to  threaten  Sir  William's  golden  king  with  his  own 
ivory  queen  and  knights  of  wilful  life.  And  Sir  William 
quaked. 

"Well,  and  how  have  you  spent  your  morning?"  asked  the 
host. 

"I  went  first  to  look  at  the  garden." 

"Ah,  not  much  to  see  now.  They  have  been  beautiful  with 
flowers,  once.  But  for  two  and  a  half  years  the  house  has 
been  a  hospital  for  officers — and  even  tents  in  the  park  and 
garden — as  many  as  two  hundred  wounded  and  sick  at  a 
time.    We  are  only  just  returning  to  civil  life.    And  flowers 


1 82  AARON'S  ROD 

need  time.  Yes — yes — British  officers — for  two  and  a  half 
years.     But  did  you  go  up,  now,  to  the  belvedere?" 

"To  the  top — where  the  vines  are?  I  never  expected  the 
mountains." 

"You  never  expected  the  mountains?  Pray,  why  not? 
They  are  always  there!" 

"But  I  was  never  there  before.  I  never  knew  they  were 
there,  round  the  town.     I  didn't  expect  it  like  that." 

"Ah!     So  you  found  our  city  impressive?" 

"Very!  Ah,  very!  A  new  world  to  me.  I  feel  I've  come 
out  of  myself." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  wonderful  sight — a  wonderful  sight —  But 
you  have  not  been  into  the  town?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  the  men  being  shaved,  and  all  the  soldiers 
at  the  station:  and  a  statue,  and  mountains  behind  it.  Oh, 
I've  had  a  full  morning." 

"A  full  morning!  That  is  good,  that  is  good!"  The  old 
man  looked  again  at  the  younger  man,  and  seemed  to  get 
life  from  him,  to  live  in  him  vicariously. 

"Come,"  said  the  hostess.     "Luncheon." 

Aaron  sat  again  on  his  hostess'  left  hand.  The  Colonel  was 
more  affable  now  it  was  meal-time.  Sir  William  was  again  in 
a  good  humour,  chaffing  the  young  ladies  with  an  old  man's 
gallantry.  But  now  he  insisted  on  drawing  Aaron  into  the 
play.  And  Aaron  did  not  want  to  be  drawn.  He  did  not 
one  bit  want  to  chaffer  gallantries  with  the  young  women. 
Between  him  and  Sir  William  there  was  a  curious  rivalry — 
unconscious  on  both  sides.  The  old  knight  had  devoted  an 
energetic,  adventurous,  almost  an  artistic  nature  to  the  mak- 
ing of  his  fortune  and  the  developing  of  later  philanthropies. 
He  had  no  children.  Aaron  was  devoting  a  similar  nature 
to  anything  but  fortune-making  and  philanthropy.  The  one 
held  life  to  be  a  storing-up  of  produce  and  a  conservation  of 
energy:  the  other  held  life  to  be  a  sheer  spending  of  energy 
and  a  storing-up  of  nothing  but  experience.  There  they 
were,  in  opposition,  the  old  man  and  the  young.  Sir  William 
kept  calling  Aaron  into  the  chaffer  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table:  and  Aaron  kept  on  refusing  to  join.     He  hated  long 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  183 

distance  answers,  anyhow.  And  in  his  mood  of  the  moment 
he  hated  the  young  women.  He  had  a  conversation  with 
Arthur  about  statues:  concerning  which  Aaron  knew  nothing, 
and  Arthur  less  than  nothing.  Then  Lady  Franks  turned  the 
conversation  to  the  soldiers  at  the  station,  and  said  how  Sir 
William  had  equipped  rest-huts  for  the  Italian  privates,  near 
the  station:  but  that  such  was  the  jealousy  and  spite  of  the 
Italian  Red  Cross — or  some  such  body,  locally — that  Sir 
William's  huts  had  been  left  empty — standing  unused — ^while 
the  men  had  slept  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  station,  night  after 
night,  in  icy  winter.  There  was  evidently  much  bitter  feel- 
ing as  a  result  of  Sir  William's  philanthropy.  Apparently 
even  the  honey  of  lavish  charity  had  turned  to  gall  in  the 
Italian  mouth:  at  least  the  official  mouth.  Which  gall  had 
been  spat  back  at  the  charitable,  much  to  his  pain.  It  is  in 
truth  a  difficult  world,  particularly  when  you  have  another 
race  to  deal  with.    After  which  came  the  beef-olives. 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  Franks,  "I  had  such  a  dreadful  dream  last 
night,  such  a  dreadful  dream.  It  upset  me  so  much.  I  have 
not  been  able  to  get  over  it  all  day." 

"What  was  it?"  said  Aaron.     "Tell  it,  and  break  it." 

"Why,"  said  his  hostess,  "I  dreamed  I  was  asleep  in  my 
room — ^just  as  I  actually  was — and  that  it  was  night,  yet  with 
a  terrible  sort  of  light,  like  the  dead  light  before  dawn,  so 
that  one  could  see.  And  my  maid  Giuseppina  came  running 
into  my  room,  saying:  'Signora!  Signora!  Si  alza!  Subito! 
Signora!  Vengono  su!' — and  I  said,  *Chi?  Chi  sono  chi 
vengono?  Chi?' — *I  Novaresi!  I  Novaresi  vengono  su.  Ven- 
gono qui!' — I  got  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the  window.  And 
there  they  were,  in  the  dead  light,  rushing  up  to  the  house, 
through  the  trees.  It  was  so  awful,  I  haven't  been  able  to 
forget  it  all  day." 

"Tell  me  what  the  words  are  in  English,"  said  Aaron. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "get  up,  get  up — the  Novaresi,  the  people 
of  Novara  are  coming  up — vengono  su — they  are  coming  up 
— the  Novara  people — work-people.  I  can't  forget  it.  It 
was  so  real,  I  can't  believe  it  didn't  actually  happen." 

"Ah,"  said  Aaron.    "It  will  never  happen.    I  know,  that 


i84  AARON'S  ROD 

whatever  one  foresees,  and  feels  has  happened,  never  happens 
in  real  life.  It  sort  of  works  itself  off  through  the  imagining 
of  it." 

"Well,  it  was  almost  more  real  to  me  than  real  life,"  said 
his  hostess. 

"Then  it  will  never  happen  in  real  life,"  he  said. 

Luncheon  passed,  and  coffee.  The  party  began  to  dis- 
perse— ^Lady  Franks  to  answer  more  letters,  with  the  aid  of 
Arthur's  wife — some  to  sleep,  some  to  walk.  Aaron  escaped 
once  more  through  the  big  gates.  This  time  he  turned  his 
back  on  the  town  and  the  mountains,  and  climbed  up  the 
hill  into  the  country.  So  he  went  between  the  banks  and 
the  bushes,  watching  for  unknown  plants  and  shrubs,  hear- 
ing the  birds,  feeling  the  influence  of  a  new  soil.  At  the  top 
of  the  hill  he  saw  over  into  vineyards,  and  a  new  strange 
valley  with  a  winding  river,  and  jumbled,  entangled  hills. 
Strange  wild  country  so  near  the  town.  It  seemed  to  keep 
an  almost  virgin  wildness — ^yet  he  saw  the  white  houses  dotted 
here  and  there. 

Just  below  him  was  a  peasant  house:  and  on  a  little  loggia 
in  the  sun  two  peasants  in  white  shirtsleeves  and  black  Sun- 
day suits  were  sitting  drinking  wine,  and  talking,  talking. 
Peasant  youths  in  black  hats,  their  sweethearts  in  dark  stuff 
dresses,  wearing  no  hat,  but  a  black  silk  or  a  white  silk  scarf, 
passed  slowly  along  the  little  road  just  below  the  ridge.  None 
looked  up  to  see  Aaron  sitting  there  alone.  From  some  hid- 
den place  somebody  was  playing  an  accordion,  a  jerky  sound 
in  the  still  afternoon.  And  away  beyond  lay  the  unchang- 
ing, mysterious  valley,  and  the  infolding,  mysterious  hills  of 
Italy. 

Returning  back  again  another  way,  he  lost  himself  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  in  new  and  deserted  suburb  streets — unfin- 
ished streets  of  seemingly  unfinished  houses.  Then  a  sort  of 
boulevard  where  bourgeois  families  were  taking  the  Sunday 
afternoon  walk:  stout  papas,  stout,  pallid  mamas  in  rather 
cheap  black  fur,  little  girls  very  much  dressed,  and  long  lads 
in  short  socks  and  round  sailor  caps,  ribbons  fluttering.  Alien 
they  felt,  alien,  alien;  as  a  bourgeois  crowd  always  does,  but 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  185 

particularly  a  foreign,  Sunday-best  bourgeois  crowd.  Aaron 
wandered  and  wandered,  finding  the  tram  terminus  and  trying 
blank,  unfinished  street  after  street.  He  had  a  great  dis- 
inclination to  ask  his  way. 

At  last  he  recognised  the  bank  and  the  little  stream  of 
water  that  ran  along  the  street  side.  So  he  was  back  in  time 
for  tea.  A  hospital  nurse  was  there,  and  two  other  strange 
women.  Arthur  played  the  part  of  host.  Sir  William  came 
in  from  a  walk  with  the  dogs,  but  retired  to  his  room  with- 
out taking  tea. 

And  so  the  evening  fell.  Aaron  sat  in  the  hall  at  some 
distance  from  the  fire,  which  burned  behind  its  wrought  iron 
gates.  He  was  tired  now  with  all  his  impressions,  and  dispir- 
ited. He  thought  of  his  wife  and  children  at  home:  of  the 
church-bells  ringing  so  loudly  across  the  field  beyond  his  gar- 
den end:  of  the  dark-clad  people  trailing  unevenly  across  the 
two  paths,  one  to  the  left,  one  to  the  right,  forking  their  way 
towards  the  houses  of  the  town,  to  church  or  to  chapel:  mostly 
to  chapel.  At  this  hour  he  himself  would  be  dressed  in  his 
best  clothes,  tying  his  bow,  ready  to  go  out  to  the  public 
house.  And  his  wife  would  be  resenting  his  holiday  depar- 
ture, whilst  she  was  left  fastened  to  the  children. 

Rather  tired  and  dispirited  in  this  alien  place,  he  wondered 
if  he  wished  himself  back.  But  the  moment  he  actually 
realised  himself  at  home,  and  felt  the  tension  of  barrenness 
which  it  meant,  felt  the  curious  and  deadly  opposition  of  his 
wife's  will  against  his  own  nature,  the  almost  nauseating  ache 
which  it  amounted  to,  he  pulled  himself  together  and  rejoiced 
again  in  his  new  surroundings.  Her  will,  her  will,  her  ter- 
rible, implacable,  cunning  will!  What  was  there  in  the  fe- 
male will  so  diabolical,  he  asked  himself,  that  it  could  press 
like  a  flat  sheet  of  iron  against  a  man  all  the  time?  The  fe- 
male will!  He  realised  now  that  he  had  a  horror  of  it.  It 
was  flat  and  inflexible  as  a  sheet  of  iron.  But  also  it  was 
cunning  as  a  snake  that  could  sing  treacherous  songs. 

Of  two  people  at  a  deadlock,  he  always  reminded  himself, 
there  is  not  one  only  wholly  at  fault.  Both  must  be  at  fault. 
Having  a  detached  and  logical  soul,  he  never  let  himself  for- 


i86  AARON'S  ROD 

get  this  truth.  Take  Lottie!  He  had  loved  her.  He  had 
never  loved  any  other  woman.  If  he  had  had  his  other  af- 
fairs— it  was  out  of  spite  or  defiance  or  curiosity.  They 
meant  nothing.  He  and  Lottie  had  loved  one  another.  And 
the  love  had  developed  almost  at  once  into  a  kind  of  combat. 
Lottie  had  been  the  only  child  of  headstrong,  well-to-do  par- 
ents. He  also  had  been  the  only  child  of  his  widowed  mother. 
Well  then,  both  he  and  Lottie  had  been  brought  up  to  con- 
sider themselves  the  first  in  whatsoever  company  they  found 
themselves.  During  the  early  months  of  the  marriage  he  had, 
of  course,  continued  the  spoiling  of  the  young  wife.  But 
this  never  altered  the  fact  that,  by  his  very  nature,  he  con- 
sidered himself  as  first  and  almost  as  single  in  any  relation- 
ship. First  and  single  he  felt,  and  as  such  he  bore  himself. 
It  had  taken  him  years  to  realise  that  Lottie  also  felt  herself 
first  and  single:  under  all  her  whimsicalness  and  fretfulness 
was  a  conviction  as  firm  as  steel:  that  she,  as  woman,  was 
the  centre  of  creation,  the  man  was  but  an  adjunct.  She, 
as  woman,  and  particularly  as  mother,  was  the  first  great 
source  of  life  and  being,  and  also  of  culture.  The  man  was 
but  the  instrument  and  the  finisher.  She  was  the  source  and 
the  substance. 

Sure  enough,  Lottie  had  never  formulated  this  belief  inside 
herself.  But  it  was  formulated  for  her  in  the  whole  world. 
It  is  the  substantial  and  professed  belief  of  the  whole  white 
world.  She  did  but  inevitably  represent  what  the  whole  world 
around  her  asserted:  the  life-centrality  of  woman.  Woman, 
the  life-bearer,  the  life-source. 

Nearly  all  men  agree  to  the  assertion.  Practically  all  men, 
even  while  demanding  their  selfish  rights  as  superior  males, 
tacitly  agree  to  the  fact  of  the  sacred  life-bearing  priority  of 
woman.  Tacitly,  they  yield  the  worship  to  that  which  is  fe- 
male. Tacitly,  they  conspire  to  agree  that  all  that  is  pro- 
ductive, all  that  is  fine  and  sensitive  and  most  essentially 
noble,  is  woman.  This,  in  their  productive  and  religious 
souls,  they  believe.  And  however  much  they  may  react 
against  the  belief,  loathing  their  women,  running  to  prosti- 
tutes, or  beer  or  anything,  out  of  reaction  against  this  great 


'     WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  187 

and  ignominious  dogma  of  the  sacred  priority  of  women,  still 
they  do  but  profane  the  god  they  worship.  Profaning  woman, 
they  still  inversely  worship  her. 

But  in  Aaron  was  planted  another  seed.  He  did  not  know 
it.  He  started  off  on  the  good  old  tack  of  worshipping  his 
woman  while  his  heart  was  honest,  and  profaning  her  in  his 
fits  of  temper  and  revolt.  But  he  made  a  bad  show.  Born 
in  him  was  a  spirit  which  could  not  worship  woman:  no, 
and  would  not.  Could  not  and  would  not.  It  was  not  in 
him.  In  early  days,  he  tried  to  pretend  it  was  in  him.  But 
through  his  plaintive  and  homage-rendering  love  of  a  young 
husband  was  always,  for  the  woman,  discernible  the  arro- 
gance of  self-unyielding  male.  He  never  yielded  himself: 
never.  All  his  mad  loving  was  only  an  effort.  Afterwards, 
he  was  as  devilishly  unyielded  as  ever.  And  it  was  an  in- 
stinct in  her,  that  her  man  must  yield  to  her,  so  that  she 
should  envelop  him  yielding,  in  her  all-beneficent  love.  She 
was  quite  sure  that  her  love  was  all-beneficent.  Of  this 
no  shadow  of  doubt.  She  was  quite  sure  that  the  highest 
her  man  could  ever  know  or  ever  reach,  was  to  be  perfectly 
enveloped  in  her  all-beneficent  love.  This  was  her  idea  of 
marriage.  She  held  it  not  as  an  idea,  but  as  a  profound  im- 
pulse and  instinct:  an  instinct  developed  in  her  by  the  age 
in  which  she  lived.  All  that  was  deepest  and  most  sacred  in 
her  feeling  centred  in  this  belief. 

And  he  outraged  her!  Oh,  from  the  first  day  and  the  first 
night,  she  felt  he  outraged  her.  True,  for  some  time  she  had 
been  taken  in  by  his  manifest  love.  But  though  you  can 
deceive  the  conscious  mind,  you  can  never  deceive  the  deep, 
unconscious  instinct.  She  could  never  understand  whence 
arose  in  her,  almost  from  the  first  days  of  marriage  with  him, 
her  terrible  paroxysms  of  hatred  for  him.  She  was  in  love 
with  him:  ah,  heaven,  how  maddeningly  she  was  in  love  with 
him:  a  certain  unseizable  beauty  that  was  his,  and  which  fas- 
cinated her  as  a  snake  a  bird.  But  in  revulsion,  how  she 
hated  him!  How  she  abhorred  him!  How  she  despised  and 
shuddered  at  him!     He  seemed  a  horrible  thing  to  her. 

And  then  again,  oh,  God,  the  agony  of  her  desire  for  him. 


i88  AARON'S  ROD 

The  agony  of  her  long,  long  desire  for  him.  He  was  a  pas- 
sionate lover.  He  gave  her,  ostensibly,  all  she  asked  for. 
He  withheld  from  her  nothing,  no  experience,  no  degree  of 
intimacy.    She  was  his  initiate,  or  he  hers. 

And  yet,  oh,  horror  for  a  woman,  he  withheld  everything 
from  her.  He  withheld  the  very  centre  of  himself.  For  a 
long  time,  she  never  realised.  She  was  dazed  and  maddened 
only.  But  as  months  of  married  experience  passed  into  years 
of  married  torment,  she  began  to  understand.  It  was  that, 
after  their  most  tremendous,  and,  it  seemed  to  her,  heaven- 
rending  passion — ^yea,  when  for  her  every  veil  seemed  rent 
and  a  terrible  and  sacred  creative  darkness  covered  the  earth — 
then — after  all  this  wonder  and  miracle — in  crept  a  poisonous 
grey  snake  of  disillusionment,  a  poisonous  grey  snake  of  dis- 
illusion that  bit  her  to  madness,  so  that  she  really  was  a  mad 
woman,  demented. 

Why?  Why?  He  never  gave  himself.  He  never  came  to 
her,  really.  He  withheld  himself.  Yes,  in  those  supreme 
and  sacred  times  which  for  her  were  the  whole  culmination 
of  life  and  being,  the  ecstasy  of  unspeakable  passional  con- 
junction, he  was  not  really  hers.  He  was  withheld.  He 
withheld  the  central  core  of  himself,  like  the  devil  and  hell- 
fiend  he  was.  He  cheated  and  made  play  with  her  tremen- 
dous passional  soul,  her  sacred  sex  passion,  most  sacred  of 
all  things  for  a  woman.  All  the  time,  some  central  part  of 
him  stood  apart  from  her,  aside,  looking  on. 
•  Oh,  agony  and  horror  for  a  passionate,  fierce-hearted 
woman!  She  who  loved  him.  She  who  loved  him  to  mad- 
ness. She  who  would  have  died  for  him.  She  who  did  die 
with  him,  many  terrible  and  magnificent  connubial  deaths, 
in  his  arms,  her  husband. 

Her  husband!  How  bitter  the  word  grew  to  her!  Her 
husband!  and  him  never  once  given,  given  wholly  to  her! 
Her  husband — and  in  all  the  frenzied  finality  of  desire,  she 
never  fully  possessed  him,  not  once.  No,  not  once.  As  time 
went  on,  she  learned  it  for  inevitable.    Not  once! 

And  then,  how  she  hated  him!  Cheated,  foiled,  betrayed, 
forced  to  love  him  or  to  hate  him:  never  able  to  be  at  peace 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  189 

near  him  nor  away  from  him:  poor  Lottie,  no  wonder  she 
was  as  a  mad  woman.  She  was  strictly  as  a  woman  demented, 
after  the  birth  of  her  second  child.  For  all  her  instinct,  all 
her  impulse,  all  her  desire,  and  above  all,  all  her  will,  was 
to  possess  her  man  in  very  fulness  once:  just  once:  and  once 
and  for  all.    Once,  just  once:  and  it  would  be  once  and  for  all. 

But  never!  Never!  Not  once!  Never!  Not  for  one 
single  solitary  second!  Was  it  not  enough  to  send  a  woman 
mad!  Was  it  not  enough  to  make  her  demented!  Yes,  and 
mad  she  was.  She  made  his  life  a  hell  for  him.  She  bit 
him  to  the  bone  with  her  frenzy  of  rage,  chagrin,  and  agony. 
She  drove  him  mad,  too:  mad,  so  that  he  beat  her:  mad  so 
that  he  longed  to  kill  her.  But  even  in  his  greatest  rages  it 
was  the  same:  he  never  finally  lost  himself:  he  remained, 
somewhere  in  the  centre,  in  possession  of  himself.  She  some- 
times wished  he  would  kill  her:  or  that  she  would  kill  him. 
Neither  event  happened. 

And  neither  of  them  understood  what  was  happening.  How 
should  they?  They  were  both  dazed,  horrified,  and  mortified. 
He  took  to  leaving  her  alone  as  much  as  was  possible.  But 
when  he  had  to  come  home,  there  was  her  terrible  will,  like 
a  flat,  cold  snake  coiled  round  his  soul  and  squeezing  him  to 
death.  Yes,  she  did  not  relent.  She  was  a  good  wife  and 
mother.  All  her  duties  she  fulfilled.  But  she  was  not  one 
to  yield.  Ne  must  yield.  That  was  written  in  eternal  let- 
ters, on  the  iron  tablet  of  her  will.  He  must  yield.  She 
the  woman,  the  mother  of  his  children,  how  should  she  ever 
even  think  to  yield?  It  was  unthinkable.  He,  the  man,  the 
weak,  the  false,  the  treacherous,  the  half-hearted,  it  was  he 
who  must  yield.  Was  not  hers  the  divine  will  and  the  divine 
right?  Ha,  she  would  be  less  than  woman  if  she  ever  capitu- 
lated, abandoned  her  divine  responsibility  as  woman!  No, 
he  must  yield. 

So,  he  was  unfaithful  to  her.  Piling  reproach  after  re- 
proach upon  himself,  he  added  adultery  to  his  brutality.  And 
this  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  She  was  more  than  mad- 
dened: but  he  began  to  grow  silent,  unresponsive,  as  if  he 
did  not  hear  her.    He  was  unfaithful  to  her:  and  oh,  in  such 


190  AARON'S  ROD 

a  low  way.  Such  shame,  such  shame!  But  he  only  smiled 
carelessly  now,  and  asked  her  what  she  wanted.  She  had 
asked  for  all  she  got.  That  he  reiterated.  And  that  was  all 
he  would  do. 

Terrible  was,  that  she  found  even  his  smile  of  insolent  in- 
dffference  half -beautiful.  Oh,  bitter  chain  to  bear!  But  she 
summoned  up  all  her  strange  woman's  will.  She  fought  against 
his  fascination,  the  fascination  he  exerted  over  her.  With 
fearful  efforts  of  will  she  fought  against  it,  and  mastered  it. 
And  then,  auddenly,  horror  and  agony  of  it,  up  it  would  rush 
in  her  again,  her  unbearable  desire  for  him,  the  longing  for 
his  contact,  his  quality  of  beauty. 

That  was  a  cross  hard  to  bear.  Yet  even  that  she  bore. 
And  schooled  herself  into  a  fretful,  petulant  manner  of  in- 
difference. Her  odd,  whimsical  petulance  hid  a  will  which 
he,  and  he  alone,  knew  to  be  stronger  than  steel,  strong  as 
a  diabolical,  cold,  grey  snake  that  presses  and  presses  and 
cannot  relax:  nay,  cannot  relax.  She  became  the  same  as  he. 
Even  in  her  moments  of  most  passionate  desire  for  him,  the 
cold  and  snake-like  tension  of  her  will  never  relaxed,  and  the 
cold,  snake-like  eye  of  her  intention  never  closed. 

So,  till  it  reached  a  deadlock.  Each  will  was  wound  tense, 
and  so  fixed.  Fixed!  There  was  neither  any  relaxing  or 
any  increase  of  pressure.  Fixed.  Hard  like  a  numbness,  a 
grip  that  was  solidifying  and  turning  to  stone. 

He  realised,  somehow,  that  at  this  terrible  passive  game 
of  fixed  tension  she  would  beat  him.  Her  fixed  female  soul, 
her  wound-up  female  will  would  solidify  into  stone — whereas 
his  must  break.  In  him  something  must  break.  It  was  a 
cold  and  fatal  deadlock,  profitless.  A  life-automatism  of  fixed 
tension  that  suddenly,  in  him,  did  break.  His  will  flew  loose 
in  a  recoil:  a  recoil  away  from  her.  He  left  her,  as  inev- 
itably as  a  broken  spring  flies  out  from  its  hold. 

Not  that  he  was  broken.  He  would  not  do  her  even  that 
credit.  He  had  only  flown  loose  from  the  old  centre-fixture. 
His  will  was  still  entire  and  unabated.  Only  he  did  not  know: 
he  did  not  understand.  He  swung  wildly  about  from  place 
to  place,  as  if  he  were  broken. 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  191 

Then  suddenly,  on  this  Sunday  evening  in  the  strange 
country,  he  realised  something  about  himself.  He  realised 
that  he  had  never  intended  to  yield  himself  fully  to  her  or 
to  anything:  that  he  did  not  intend  ever  to  yield  himself  up 
entirely  to  her  or  to  anything:  that  his  very  being  pivoted 
on  the  fact  of  his  isolate  self-responsibility,  aloneness.  His 
intrinsic  and  central  aloneness  was  the  very  centre  of  his 
being.  Break  it,  and  he  broke  his  being.  Break  this  cen- 
tral aloneness,  and  he  broke  everything.  It  was  the  great 
temptation,  to  yield  himself:  and  it  was  the  final  sacrilege. 
Anyhow,  it  was  something  which,  from  his  profoundest  soul, 
he  did  not  intend  to  do.  By  the  innermost  isolation  and 
singleness  of  his  own  soul  he  would  abide  though  the  skies 
fell  on  top  of  one  another,  and  seven  heavens  collapsed. 

Vaguely  he  realised  this.  And  vaguely  he  realised  that 
this  had  been  the  root  cause  of  his  strife  with  Lottie:  Lottie, 
the  only  person  who  had  mattered  at  all  to  him  in  all  the 
world:  save  perhaps  his  mother.  And  his  mother  had  not 
mattered,  no,  not  one-half  nor  one-fifth  what  Lottie  had  mat- 
tered. So  it  was:  there  was,  for  him,  only  her  significant  in 
the  universe.  And  between  him  and  her  matters  were  as 
they  were. 

He  coldly  and  terribly  hated  her,  for  a  moment.  Then 
no  more.  There  was  no  solution.  It  was  a  situation  without 
a  solution.  But  at  any  rate,  it  was  now  a  defined  situation. 
He  could  rest  in  peace. 

Thoughts  something  in  this  manner  ran  through  Aaron's 
subconscious  mind  as  he  sat  still  in  the  strange  house.  He 
could  not  have  fired  it  all  off  at  any  listener,  as  these  pages 
are  fired  off  at  any  chance  reader.  Nevertheless  there  it  was, 
risen  to  half  consciousness  in  him.  All  his  life  he  had  hated 
knowing  what  he  felt.  He  had  wilfully,  if  not  consciously, 
kept  a  gulf  between  his  passional  soul  and  his  open  mind.  In 
his  mind  was  pinned  up  a  nice  description  of  himself,  and  a 
description  of  Lottie,  sort  of  authentic  passports  to  be  used 
in  the  conscious  world.  These  authentic  passports,  self -describ- 
ing: nose  short,  mouth  normal,  etc.;  he  had  insisted  that  they 
should  do  all  the  duty  of  the  man  himself.    Tins  ready-made 


192  AARON'S  ROD 

and  very  banal  idea  of  himself  as  a  really  quite  nice  indi- 
vidual: eyes  blue,  nose  short,  mouth  normal,  chin  normal;  this 
he  had  insisted  was  really  himself.  It  was  his  conscious  mask- 
Now  at  last,  after  years  of  struggle,  he  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  dropped  his  mask  on  the  floor,  and  broken  it.  His 
authentic  self-describing  passport,  his  complete  and  satisfac- 
tory idea  of  himself  suddenly  became  a  rag  of  paper,  ridicu- 
lous. What  on  earth  did  it  matter  if  he  was  nice  or  not,  if 
his  chin  was  normal  or  abnormal. 

His  mask,  his  idea  of  himself  dropped  and  was  broken  to 
bits.  There  he  sat  now  maskless  and  invisible.  That  was 
how  he  strictly  felt:  invisible  and  undefined,  rather  like 
Wells'  Invisible  Man.  He  had  no  longer  a  mask  to  present 
to  people:  he  was  present  and  invisible:  they  could  not  really 
think  anything  about  him,  because  they  could  not  really  see 
him.  What  did  they  see  when  they  looked  at  him?  Lady 
Franks,  for  example.  He  neither  knew  nor  cared.  He  only 
knew  he  was  invisible  to  himself  and  everybody,  and  that  all 
thinking  about  what  he  was  like  was  only  a  silly  game  of 
Mrs.  Mackenzie's  Dead. 

So  there.  The  old  Aaron  Sisson  was  as  if  painfully  trans- 
muted, as  the  Invisible  Man  when  he  underwent  his  transmu- 
tations. Now  he  was  gone,  and  no  longer  to  be  seen.  His 
visibility  lost  for  ever. 

And  then  what?  Sitting  there  as  an  invisible  presence, 
the  preconceived  world  melted  also  and  was  gone.  Lady 
Franks,  Sir  William,  all  the  guests,  they  talked  and  manoeuvered 
with  their  visible  personalities,  manipulating  the  masks  of 
themselves.  And  underneath  there  was  something  invisible 
and  dying — something  fading,  wilting:  the  essential  plasm  of 
themselves:  their  invisible  being. 

Well  now,  and  what  next?  Having  in  some  curious  manner 
tumbled  from  the  tree  of  modern  knowledge,  and  cracked 
and  rolled  out  from  the  shell  of  the  preconceived  idea  of 
himself  like  some  dark,  night-lustrous  chestnut  from  the  green 
ostensibility  of  the  burr,  he  lay  as  it  were  exposed  but  invisible 
on  the  floor,  knowing,  but  making  no  conceptions:  knowing, 
but  having  no  idea.    Now  that  he  was  finally  unmasked  and 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  193 

exposed,  the  accepted  idea  of  himself  cracked  and  rolled 
aside  like  a  broken  chestnut-burr,  the  mask  split  and  shat- 
tered, he  was  at  last  quiet  and  free.  He  had  dreaded  ex- 
posure: and  behold,  we  cannot  be  exposed,  for  we  are  invisi- 
ble. We  cannot  be  exposed  to  the  looks  of  others,  for  our 
very  being  is  night-lustrous  and  unseeable.  Like  the  Invisible 
Man,  we  are  only  revealed  through  our  clothes  and  our  masks. 

In  his  own  powerful  but  subconscious  fashion  Aaron  realized 
this.  He  was  a  musician.  And  hence  even  his  deepest  ideas 
were  not  word-ideas,  his  very  thoughts  were  not  composed  of 
words  and  ideal  concepts.  They  too,  his  thoughts  and  his 
ideas,  were  dark  and  invisible,  as  electric  vibrations  are  invis- 
ible no  matter  how  many  words  they  may  purport.  If  I, 
as  a  word-user,  must  translate  his  deep  conscious  vibrations 
into  finite  words,  that  is  my  own  business.  I  do  but  make  a 
translation  of  the  man.  He  would  speak  in  music.  I  speak 
with  words. 

The  inaudible  music  of  his  conscious  soul  conveyed  his 
meaning  in  him  quite  as  clearly  as  I  convey  it  in  words: 
probably  much  more  clearly.  But  in  his  own  mode  only: 
and  it  was  in  his  own  mode  only  he  realised  what  I  must 
put  into  words.  These  words  are  my  own  affair.  His  mind 
was  music. 

Don't  grumble  at  me  then,  gentle  reader,  and  swear  at  me 
that  this  damned  fellow  wasn't  half  clever  enough  to  think 
all  these  smart  things,  and  realise  all  these  fine-drawn-out  sub- 
tleties. You  are  quite  right,  he  wasn't,  yet  it  all  resolved  itself 
in  him  as  I  say,  and  it  is  for  you  to  prove  that  it  didn't. 

In  his  now  silent,  maskless  state  of  wordless  comprehension, 
he  knew  that  he  had  never  wanted  to  surrender  himself 
utterly  to  Lottie:  nor  to  his  mother:  nor  to  anybody.  The 
last  extreme  of  self-abandon  in  love  was  for  him  an  act  of 
false  behaviour.  His  own  nature  inside  him  fated  him  not 
to  take  this  last  false  step,  over  the  edge  of  the  abyss  of  self- 
lessness. Even  if  he  wanted  to,  he  could  not.  He  might 
struggle  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice  like  an  assassin  strug- 
gling with  his  own  soul,  but  he  could  not  conquer.  For, 
according  to  all  the  current  prejudice  and  impulse  in  one 


194 


AARON'S  ROD 


direction,  he  too  had  believed  that  the  final  achievement,  the 
consummation  of  human  life,  was  this  flinging  oneself  over 
the  precipice,  down  the  bottomless  pit  of  love.  Now  he 
realised  that  love,  even  in  its  intensest,  was  only  an  attribute 
of  the  human  soul:  one  of  its  incomprehensible  gestures. 
And  to  fling  down  the  whole  soul  in  one  gesture  of  finality 
in  love  was  as  much  a  criminal  suicide  as  to  jump  off  a 
church- tower  or  a  mountain-peak.  Let  a  man  give  himself 
as  much  as  he  liked  in  love,  to  seven  thousand  extremities, 
he  must  never  give  himself  away.  The  more  generous  and 
the  more  passionate  a  soul,  the  more  it  gives  itself.  But  the 
more  absolute  remains  the  law,  that  it  shall  never  give  itself 
away.  Give  thyself,  but  give  thyself  not  away.  That  is  the 
lesson  written  at  the  end  of  the  long  strange  lane  of  love. 

The  idee  fixe  of  today  is  that  every  individual  shall  not 
only  give  himself,  but  shall  achieve  the  last  glory  of  giving 
himself  away.  And  since  this  takes  two — ^you  can't  even 
make  a  present  of  yourself  unless  you've  got  somebody  to 
receive  the  present;  since  this  last  extra-divine  act  takes  two 
people  to  perform  it,  you've  got  to  take  into  count  not  only 
your  giver  but  your  receiver.  Who  is  going  to  be  the  giver 
and  who  the  receiver. 

Why,  of  course,  in  our  long-drawn-out  Christian  day,  man  is 
given  and  woman  is  recipient.  Man  is  the  gift,  woman  the 
receiver.  This  is  the  sacrament  we  live  by;  the  holy  Com- 
munion we  live  for.  That  man  gives  himself  to  woman  in  an 
utter  and  sacred  abandon,  all,  all,  all  himself  given,  and 
taken.  Woman,  eternal  woman,  she  is  the  communicant. 
She  receives  the  sacramental  body  and  spirit  of  the  man. 
And  when  she's  got  it,  according  to  her  passionate  and  all- 
too-sacred  desire,  completely,  when  she  possesses  her  man  at 
last  finally  and  ultimately,  without  blemish  or  reservation  in 
the  perfection  of  the  sacrament:  then,  also,  poor  woman,  the 
blood  and  the  body  of  which  she  has  partaken  become  insipid 
or  nauseous  to  her,  she  is  driven  mad  by  the  endless  meal  of 
the  marriage  sacrament,  poisoned  by  the  sacred  communion 
which  was  her  goal  and  her  soul's  ambition. 

We  have  pushed  a  process  into  a  goal.     The  aim  of  any 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  195 

process  is  not  the  perpetuation  of  that  process,  but  the  com- 
pletion thereof.  Love  is  a  process  of  the  incomprehensible 
human  soul:  love  also  incomprehensible,  but  still  only  a  proc- 
ess. The  process  should  work  to  a  completion,  not  to  some 
horror  of  intensification  and  extremity  wherein  the  soul  and 
body  ultimately  perish.  The  completion  of  the  process  of 
love  is  the  arrival  at  a  state  of  simple,  pure  self-possession, 
for  man  and  woman.  Only  that.  Which  isn't  exciting  enough 
for  us  sensationalists.  We  prefer  abysses  and  maudlin  self- 
abandon  and  self-sacrifice,  the  degeneration  into  a  sort  of 
slime  and  merge. 

Perhaps,  truly,  the  process  of  love  is  never  accomplished. 
But  it  moves  in  great  stages,  and  at  the  end  of  each  stage 
a  true  goal,  where  the  soul  possesses  itself  in  simple  and 
generous  singleness.    Without  this,  love  is  a  disease. 

So  Aaron,  crossing  a  certain  border-line  and  finding  himself 
alone  completely,  accepted  his  loneliness  or  singleness  as  a 
fulfilment,  a  state  of  fulfilment.  The  long  fight  with  Lottie 
had  driven  him  at  last  to  himself,  so  that  he  was  quiet  as  a 
thing  which  has  its  root  deep  in  life,  and  has  lost  its  anxiety. 
As  for  considering  the  lily,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  consideration. 
The  lily  toils  and  spins  hard  enough,  in  her  own  way.  But 
without  that  strain  and  that  anxiety  with  which  we  try  to 
weave  ourselves  a  life.  The  lily  is  life-rooted,  life-central. 
She  cannot  worry.  She  is  life  itself,  a  little,  delicate  fountain 
playing  creatively,  for  as  long  or  as  short  a  time  as  may  be, 
and  unable  to  be  anxious.  She  may  be  sad  or  sorry,  if  the 
north  wind  blows.  But  even  then,  anxious  she  cannot  be. 
Whether  her  fountain  play  or  cease  to  play,  from  out  the 
cold,  damp  earth,  she  cannot  be  anxious.  She  may  only  be 
glad  or  sorry,  and  continue  her  way.  She  is  perfectly  herself, 
whatever  befall!  even  if  frosts  cut  her  off.  Happy  lily,  never 
to  be  saddled  with  an  idee  fixe,  never  to  be  in  the  grip  of  a 
monomania  for  happiness  or  love  or  fulfilment.  It  is  not 
laisser  aller.  It  is  life-rootedness.  It  is  being  by  oneself, 
life-living,  like  the  much-mooted  lily.  One  toils,  one  spins, 
one  strives:  just  as  the  lily  does.  But  like  her,  taking  one's 
own  life-way  amidst  everything,  and  taking  one's  own  life-way 


196  AARON'S  ROD 

alone.  Love  too.  But  there  also,  taking  one's  way  alone, 
happily  alone  in  all  the  wonders  of  communion,  swept  up  on 
the  winds,  but  never  swept  away  from  one's  very  self.  Two 
eagles  in  mid-air,  maybe,  like  Whitman's  Dalliance  of  Eagles. 
Two  eagles  in  mid-air,  grappling,  whirling,  coming  to  their 
intensification  of  love-oneness  there  in  mid-air.  In  mid-air 
the  love  consummation.  But  all  the  time  each  lifted  on  its 
own  wings:  each  bearing  itself  up  on  its  own  wings  at  every 
moment  of  the  mid-air  love  consummation.  That  is  the 
splendid  love-way. 


The  party  was  festive  at  dinner-time,  the  women  in  their 
finest  dresses,  new  flowers  on  the  table,  the  best  wine  going. 
It  was  Sunday  evening.  Aaron  too  was  dressed — and  Lady 
Franks,  in  black  lace  and  pearls,  was  almost  gay.  There  were 
quails  for  dinner.  The  Colonel  was  quite  happy.  An  air 
of  conviviality  gathered  round  the  table  during  the  course 
of  the  meal. 

"I  hope,"  said  Aaron,  "that  we  shall  have  some  music  to- 
night." 

"I  want  so  much  to  hear  your  flute,"  said  his  hostess. 

"And  I  your  piano,"  he  said. 

"I  am  very  weak — ^very  out  of  practise.  I  tremble  at  the 
thought  of  playing  before  a  musician.  But  you  must  not  be 
too  critical." 

"Oh,"  said  Aaron,  "I  am  not  a  man  to  be  afraid  of." 

"Well,  we  will  see,"  said  Lady  Franks.  "But  I  am  afraid 
of  music  itself." 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron.    "I  think  it  is  risky.'* 

"Risky!  I  don't  see  that!  Music  risky?  Bach?  Beetho- 
ven! No,  I  don't  agree.  On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  is 
most  elevating — most  morally  inspiring.  No,  I  tremble  be- 
fore it  because  it  is  so  wonderful  and  elevating." 

"I  often  find  it  makes  me  feel  diabolical,"  said  he. 

"That  is  your  misfortune,  I  am  sure,"  said  Lady  Franks. 
"Please  do  take  another — but  perhaps  you  don't  like  mush- 
rooms?" 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  197 

Aaron  quite  liked  mushrooms,  and  helped  himself  to  the 
entree. 

"But  perhaps,"  said  she,  "you  are  too  modern.  You  don't 
care  for  Bach  or  Beethoven  or  Chopin — dear  Chopin." 

"I  find  them  all  quite  as  modern  as  I  am." 

"Is  that  so!  Yes.  For  myself  I  am  quite  old-fashioned — 
though  I  can  appreciate  Strauss  and  Stravinsky  as  well,  some 
things.  But  my  old  things — ah,  I  don't  think  the  moderns 
are  so  fine.  They  are  not  so  deep.  They  haven't  fathomed 
life  so  deeply."    Lady  Franks  sighed  faintly. 

"They  don't  care  for  depths,"  said  Aaron. 

"No,  they  haven't  the  capacity.  But  I  like  big,  deep  music. 
Oh,  I  love  orchestra.  But  my  instrument  is  the  piano.  I  like 
the  great  masters.  Bach,  Beethoven.  They  have  such  faith. 
You  were  talking  of  faith — believing  that  things  would  work 
out  well  for  you  in  the  end.  Beethoven  inspires  that  in  me, 
too." 

"He  makes  you  feel  that  all  will  be  well  with  you  at  last?" 

"Yes,  he  does.  He  makes  me  feel  faith  in  my  personal 
destiny.  And  I  do  feel  that  there  is  something  in  one's  spe- 
cial fate.  I  feel  that  I  myself  have  a  special  kind  of  fate, 
that  will  always  look  after  me." 

"And  you  can  trust  to  it?" 

"Yes,  I  can.  It  always  turns  out  right.  I  think  something 
has  gone  wrong — and  then,  it  always  turns  out  right.  Why 
when  we  were  in  London — ^when  we  were  at  lunch  one  morn- 
ing it  suddenly  struck  me,  haven't  I  left  my  fur  cloak  some- 
where? It  was  rather  cold,  so  I  had  taken  it  with  me,  and 
then  never  put  it  on.  And  I  hadn't  brought  it  home.  I  had 
left  it  somewhere.  But  whether  in  a  taxi,  or  in  a  shop,  or  in 
a  little  show  of  pictures  I  had  been  to,  I  couldn't  remember. 
I  could  not  remember.  And  I  thought  to  myself:  have  I  lost 
my  cloak?  I  went  round  to  everywhere  I  could  think  of:  no 
trace  of  it.  But  I  didn't  give  it  up.  Something  prompted 
me  not  to  give  it  up:  quite  distinctly,  I  felt  something  telling 
me  that  I  should  get  it  back.  So  I  called  at  Scotland  Yard 
and  gave  the  information.  Well,  two  days  later  I  had  a 
notice  from  Scotland  Yard,  so  I  went.    And  there  was  my 


198  AARON'S  ROD 

cloak.  I  had  it  back.  And  that  has  happened  to  me  almost 
every  time.  I  almost  always  get  my  things  back.  And  I 
always  feel  that  something  looks  after  me,  do  you  know: 
almost  takes  care  of  me." 

"But  do  you  mean  when  you  lose  things — or  in  your  life?" 

''I  mean  when  I  lose  things — or  when  I  want  to  get  some- 
thing I  want — ^I  am  very  nearly  always  successful.  And 
I  always  feel  there  is  some  sort  of  higher  power  which  does 
it  for  me." 

"Finds  your  cloak  for  you." 

"Yes.  Wasn't  it  extraordinary?  I  felt  when  I  saw  my 
cloak  in  Scotland  Yard:  There,  I  knew  I  should  recover  you. 
And  I  always  feel,  as  I  say,  that  there  is  some  higher  power 
which  helps  me.    Do  you  feel  the  same?" 

"No,  not  that  way,  worse  luck.  I  lost  a  batch  of  music 
a  month  ago  which  didn't  belong  to  me — and  which  I  couldn't 
replace.  But  I  never  could  recover  it:  though  I'm  sure  no- 
body wanted  it." 

"How  very  unfortunate!  Whereas  my  fur  cloak  was  just 
the  thing  that  gets  stolen  most." 

"I  wished  some  power  would  trace  my  music:  but  appar- 
ently we  aren't  all  gifted  alike  with  guardian  angels." 

"Apparently  not.  And  that  is  how  I  regard  it:  almost  as 
a  gift,  you  know,  that  my  fairy  godmother  gave  me  in  my 
cradle." 

"For  always  recovering  your  property?" 

"Yes — and  succeeding  in  my  undertakings." 

"I'm  afraid  I  had  no  fairy  godmother." 

"Well— I  think  I  had.    And  very  glad  I  am  of  it." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Aaron,  looking  at  his  hostess. 

So  the  dinner  sailed  merrily  on. 

"But  does  Beethoven  make  you  feel,"  said  Aaron  as  an 
afterthought,  "in  the  same  way — that  you  will  always  find 
the  things  you  have  lost?" 

"Yes — he  makes  me  feel  the  same  faith:  that  what  I  lose 
will  be  returned  to  me.  Just  as  I  found  my  cloak.  And  that 
if  I  enter  into  an  undertaking,  it  will  be  successful." 

"And  your  life  has  been  always  successful?" 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  199 

"Yes — almost  always.  We  have  succeeded  with  almost 
everything." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Aaron,  looking  at  her  again. 

But  even  so,  he  could  see  a  good  deal  of  hard  wornness 
under  her  satisfaction.  She  had  had  her  suffering,  sure 
enough.  But  none  the  less,  she  was  in  the  main  satisfied.  She 
sat  there,  a  good  hostess,  and  expected  the  homage  due  to  her 
success.  And  of  course  she  got  it.  Aaron  himself  did  his 
little  share  of  shoe-licking,  and  swallowed  the  taste  of  boot- 
polish  with  a  grimace,  knowing  what  he  was  about. 

The  dinner  wound  gaily  to  an  end.  The  ladies  retired. 
Sir  William  left  his  seat  of  honour  at  the  end  of  the  table 
and  came  and  sat  next  to  Aaron,  summoning  the  other  three 
men  to  cluster  near. 

"Now,  Colonel,"  said  the  host,  "send  round  the  bottle." 

With  a  flourish  of  the  elbow  and  shoulder,  the  Colonel  sent 
on  the  port,  actually  port,  in  those  bleak,  post-war  daysl 

"Well,  Mr.  Sisson,"  said  Sir  William,  "we  will  drink  to 
your  kind  Providence:  providing,  of  course,  that  we  shall 
give  no  offence  by  so  doing." 

"No,  sir;  no,  sir!  The  Providence  belonged  to  Mr.  Lilly. 
Mr.  Sisson  put  his  money  on  kindly  fortune,  I  believe,"  said 
Arthur,  who  rosy  and  fresh  with  wine,  looked  as  if  he  would 
make  a  marvelous  bonne  bouchee  for  a  finely-discriminating 
cannibal. 

"Ah,  yes,  indeed!  A  much  more  ingratiating  lady  to  lift 
our  glasses  to.  Mr.  Sisson's  kindly  fortune.  Fortuna  gentU- 
issimal  Well,  Mr.  Sisson,  and  may  your  Lady  Fortune  ever 
smile  on  you." 

Sir  William  lifted  his  glass  with  an  odd  little  smirk,  some 
touch  of  a  strange,  prim  old  satyr  lurking  in  his  oddly  inclined 
head.  Nay,  more  than  satyr:  that  curious,  rather  terrible  iron 
demon  that  has  fought  with  the  world  and  wrung  wealth 
from  it,  and  which  knows  all  about  it.  The  devilish  spirit 
of  iron  itself,  and  iron  machines.  So,  with  his  strange,  old 
smile  showing  his  teeth  rather  terribly,  the  old  knight  glow- 
ered sightlessly  over  his  glass  at  Aaron.  Then  he  drank:  the 
strange,  careful,  old-man's  gesture  in  drinking. 


200  AARON'S  ROD 

"But,"  said  Aaron,  "if  Fortune  is  a  female " 

"Fortune!  Fortune!  Why,  Fortune  is  a  lady.  What  do 
you  say.  Major?" 

"She  has  all  the  airs  of  one,  Sir  William,"  said  the  Major, 
with  the  wistful  grimness  of  his  age  and  culture.  And  the 
young  fellow  stared  like  a  crucified  cyclop  from  his  one  eye: 
the  black  shutter  being  over  the  other. 

''And  all  the  graces,"  capped  Sir  William,  delighted  with 
himself. 

"Oh,  quite!"  said  the  Major.  "For  some,  all  the  airs,  and 
for  others,  all  the  graces." 

"Faint  heart  ne'er  won  fair  lady,  my  boy,"  said  Sir  Wil- 
liam. "Not  that  your  heart  is  faint.  On  the  contrary — as 
we  know,  and  your  country  knows.  But  with  Lady  Fortune 
you  need  another  kind  of  stout  heart — oh,  quite  another 
kind." 

"I  believe  it,  Sir:  and  the  kind  of  stout  heart  which  I  am 
afraid  I  haven't  got,"  said  the  Major. 

"What!"  said  the  old  man.  "Show  the  white  feather  be- 
fore you've  tackled  the  lady!  Fill  the  Major's  glass,  Colonel. 
I  am  quite  sure  we  will  none  of  us  ever  say  die." 

"Not  likely.  Not  if  we  know  it,"  said  the  Colonel,  stretch- 
ing himself  heartily  inside  his  tunic.  He  was  becoming  rud- 
dier than  the  cherry.  All  he  cared  about  at  the  moment  was 
his  gay  little  port  glass.  But  the  Major's  young  cheek  was 
hollow  and  sallow,  his  one  eye  terribly  pathetic. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Sisson,"  said  Sir  William,  "mean  to  carry 
all  before  you  by  taking  no  thought  for  the  morrow.  Well, 
now,  we  can  only  wish  you  success." 

"I  don't  want  to  carry  all  before  me,"  said  Aaron.  "I 
should  be  sorry.    I  want  to  walk  past  most  of  it." 

"Can  you  tell  us  where  to?  I  am  intrigued,  as  Sybil  says, 
to  know  where  you  will  walk  to.    Come  now.    Enlighten  us." 

"Nowhere,  I  suppose." 

"But  is  that  satisfactory?     Can  you  find  it  satisfactory?" 

"Is  it  even  true?"  said  the  Major.  "Isn't  it  quite  as  posi- 
tive an  act  to  walk  away  from  a  situation  as  to  walk  towards 
it?" 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  201 

"My  dear  boy,  you  can't  merely  walk  away  from  a  situa- 
tion. Believe  that.  If  you  walk  away  from  Rome,  you  walk 
into  the  Maremma,  or  into  the  Alban  Hills,  or  into  the  sea — 
but  you  walk  into  something.  Now  if  I  am  going  to  walk 
away  from  Rome,  I  prefer  to  choose  my  direction,  and  there- 
fore my  destination." 

"But  you  can't,"  said  the  Major. 

"What  can't  you?" 

"Choose.  Either  your  direction  or  your  destination."  The 
Major  was  obstinate. 

"Really!"  said  Sir  William.  "I  have  not  found  it  so.  I 
have  not  found  it  so.  I  have  had  to  keep  myself  hard  at 
work,  all  my  life,  choosing  between  this  or  that." 

"And  we,"  said  the  Major,  "have  no  choice,  except  between 
this  or  nothing." 

"Really!  I  am  afraid,"  said  Sir  William,  "I  am  afraid  I 
am  too  old — or  too  young — ^which  shall  I  say? — to  under- 
stand." 

"Too  young,  sir,"  said  Arthur  sweetly.  "The  child  was 
always  father  to  the  man,  I  believe." 

"I  confess  the  Major  makes  me  feel  childish,"  said  the  old 
man.  "The  choice  between  this  or  nothing  is  a  puzzler  to 
me.  Can  you  help  me  out,  Mr.  Sisson?  What  do  you  make 
of  this  this-or-nothing  business?  I  can  understand  neck-or- 
nothing " 

"I  prefer  the  nothing  part  of  it  to  the  this  part  of  it,"  said 
Aaron,  grinning. 

"Colonel,"  said  the  old  man,  "throw  a  little  light  on  this 
nothingness." 

"No,  Sir  William,"  said  the  Colonel.  "I  am  all  right  as 
I  am." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  so  are  we  all,  perfectly  A.i.,"  said 
Arthur. 

Aaron  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"That's  the  top  and  bottom  of  it,"  he  laughed,  flushed  with 
wine,  and  handsome.  We're  all  as  right  as  ninepence.  Only 
it's  rather  nice  to  talk." 

"There!"  said  Sir  William.     "We're  all  as  right  as  nine- 


202  AARON'S  ROD 

pence!  WeVe  all  as  right  ninepence.  So  there  we'll  leave  it, 
before  the  Major  has  time  to  say  he  is  twopence  short." 
Laughing  his  strange  old  soundless  laugh,  Sir  William  rose  and 
made  a  little  bow.  "Come  up  and  join  the  ladies  in  a  minute 
or  two,"  he  said.  Arthur  opened  the  door  for  him  and  he  left 
the  room. 

The  four  men  were  silent  for  a  moment — then  the  Colonel 
whipped  up  the  decanter  and  filled  his  glass.  Then  he  stood 
up  and  clinked  glasses  with  Aaron,  like  a  real  old  sport. 

''Luck  to  you,"  he  said. 

"Thanks,"  said  Aaron. 

"You're  going  in  the  morning?"  said  Arthur. 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron. 

"What  train?"  said  Arthur. 

"Eight-forty." 

"Oh — then  we  shan't  see  you  again.    Well — ^best  of  luck." 

"Best  of  luck — "  echoed  the  Colonel. 

"Same  to  you,"  said  Aaron,  and  they  all  peered  over  their 
glasses  and  quite  loved  one  another  for  a  rosy  minute. 

"I  should  like  to  know,  though,"  said  the  hollow-cheeked 
young  Major  with  the  black  flap  over  his  eye,  "whether  you 
do  really  mean  you  are  all  right — that  it  is  all  right  with  you — 
or  whether  you  only  say  so  to  get  away  from  the  responsi- 
bility." 

"I  mean  I  don't  really  care — ^I  don't  a  damn — ^let  the  devil 
take  it  all." 

"The  devil  doesn't  want  it,  either,"  said  the  Major. 

"Then  let  him  leave  it.  I  don't  care  one  single  little  curse 
about  it  all." 

"Be  damned.  What  is  there  to  care  about?"  said  the 
Colonel. 

"Ay,  what?"  said  Aaron. 

"It's  all  the  same,  whether  you  care  or  don't  care.  So  I  say 
it's  much  easier  not  to  care,"  said  Arthur. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  the  Colonel  gaily. 

"And  I  think  so,  too,"  said  Aaron. 

"Right  you  are!  We're  all  as  right  as  ninepence — ^what? 
Good  old  sport!     Here's  yours!"  cried  the  Colonel. 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  203 

"We  shall  have  to  be  going  up,"  said  Arthur,  wise  in  his 
generation. 

As  they  went  into  the  hall,  Arthur  suddenly  put  one  arm 
round  Aaron's  waist,  and  one  arm  round  the  Colonel's,  and 
the  three  did  a  sudden  little  barn-dance  towards  the  stairs. 
Arthur  was  feeling  himself  quite  let  loose  again,  back  in  his 
old  regimental  mess. 

Approaching  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  he  let  go  again.  He  was 
in  that  rosy  condition  when  united-we-stand.  But  unfortu- 
nately it  is  a  complicated  job  to  climb  the  stairs  in  unison. 
The  whole  lot  tends  to  fall  backwards.  Arthur,  therefore, 
rosy,  plump,  looking  so  good  to  eat,  stood  still  a  moment  in 
order  to  find  his  own  neatly-slippered  feet.  Having  found 
them,  he  proceeded  to  put  them  carefully  one  before  the  other, 
and  to  his  enchantment  found  that  this  procedure  was  carry- 
ing him  magically  up  the  stairs.  The  Colonel,  like  a  drowning 
man,  clutched  feebly  for  the  straw  of  the  great  stair-rail — and 
missed  it.  He  would  have  gone  under,  but  that  Aaron's  hand 
gripped  his  arm.  So,  orientating  once  more  like  a  fragile 
tendril,  he  reached  again  for  the  banister  rail,  and  got  it. 
After  which,  lifting  his  feet  as  if  they  were  little  packets  of 
sand  tied  to  his  trouser  buttons,  he  manipulated  his  way 
upwards.  Aaron  was  in  that  pleasant  state  when  he  saw  what 
everybody  else  was  doing  and  was  unconscious  of  what  he  did 
himself.  Whilst  tall,  gaunt,  erect,  like  a  murdered  Hamlet 
resurrected  in  khaki,  with  the  terrible  black  shutter  over  his 
eye,  the  young  Major  came  last. 

Arthur  was  making  a  stern  fight  for  his  composure.  His 
whole  future  depended  on  it.  But  do  what  he  would,  he  could 
not  get  the  flushed,  pleased,  mess-happy  look  off  his  face. 
The  Colonel,  oh,  awful  man,  did  a  sort  of  plump  roly-poly- 
cake-walk,  like  a  fat  boy,  right  to  the  very  door  of  that 
santum-sanctorum,  the  library.  Aaron  was  inwardly  con- 
vulsed.   Even  the  Major  laughed. 

But  Arthur  stiffened  himself  militarily  and  cleared  his 
throat.  All  four  started  to  compose  themselves,  like  actors 
going  on  the  stage,  outside  that  library  door.  And  then  Arthur 
softly,  almost  wistfully,  opened  and  held  the  door  for  the 


204  AARON'S  ROD 

others  to  pass.  The  Colonel  slunk  meekly  in,  and  sat  in  a 
chair  in  the  background.  The  Major  stalked  in  expression- 
less, and  hovered  towards  the  sofa  where  his  wife  sat. 

There  was  a  rather  cold-water-down-your-back  feeling  in 
the  library.  The  ladies  had  been  waiting  for  coffee.  Sir  Wil- 
liam was  waiting,  too.  Therefore  in  a  little  tension,  half 
silent,  the  coffee  was  handed  round.  Lady  Franks  was  discuss- 
ing something  with  Arthur's  wife.  Arthur^s  wife  was  in  a 
cream  lace  dress,  and  looking  what  is  called  lovely.  The 
Major's  wife  was  in  amethyst  chiffon  with  dark-red  roses,  and 
was  looking  blindingly  beautiful.  The  Colonel  was  looking 
into  his  coffee-cup  as  wistfully  as  if  it  contained  the  illusion 
of  tawny  port.  The  Major  was  looking  into  space,  as  if  there 
and  there  alone,  etc.  Arthur  was  looking  for  something  which 
Lady  Franks  had  asked  for,  and  which  he  was  much  too 
flushed  to  find.  Sir  William  was  looking  at  Aaron,  and  pre- 
paring for  another  coeur  a  coeur. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  doubt  if  you  will  care  for  Milan.  It  is 
one  of  the  least  Italian  of  all  the  towns,  in  my  opinion. 
Venice,  of  course,  is  a  thing  apart.  I  cannot  stand,  myself, 
that  miserable  specimen  the  modern  Roman.  He  has  most 
of  the  vices  of  the  old  Romans  and  none  of  the  virtues.  The 
most  congenial  town,  perhaps,  for  a  stranger,  is  Florence. 
But  it  has  a  very  bad  climate." 

Lady  Franks  rose  significantly  and  left  the  room,  accom- 
panied by  Arthur's  wife.  Aaron  knew,  silently,  that  he  was 
summoned  to  follow.  His  hostess  had  her  eye  on  him  this 
evening.  But  always  postponing  his  obedience  to  the  cool 
commands  of  women,  he  remained  talking  with  his  host  in  the 
library,  and  sipping  creme  de  menthet  Came  the  ripple  of 
the  pianoforte  from  the  open  doorway  down  at  the  further  end 
of  the  room.  Lady  Franks  was  playing,  in  the  large  drawing- 
room.  And  the  ripple  of  the  music  contained  in  it  the  hard 
insistence  of  the  little  woman's  will.  Coldly,  and  decidedly, 
she  intended  there  should  be  no  more  unsettling  conversations 
for  the  old  Sir  William.  Aaron  was  to  come  forthwith  into 
the  drawing  room.  Which  Aaron  plainly  understood — and 
so  he  didn't  go.    No,  he  didn't  go,  though  the  pianoforte  rip- 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  205 

pled  and  swelled  in  volume.  No,  and  he  didn't  go  even  when 
Lady  Franks  left  off  playing  and  came  into  the  library  again. 
There  he  sat,  talking  with  Sir  William.  Let  us  do  credit  to 
Lady  Franks'  will-power,  and  admit  that  the  talk  was  quite 
empty  and  distracted — none  of  the  depths  and  skirmishes  of 
the  previous  occasions.  None  the  less,  the  talk  continued. 
Lady  Franks  retired,  discomfited,  to  her  piano  again.  She 
would  never  break  in  upon  her  lord. 

So  now  Aaron  relented.  He  became  more  and  more  dis- 
tracted. Sir  William  wandered  away  like  some  restless,  hunted 
soul.  The  Colonel  still  sat  in  his  chair,  nursing  his  last  drop 
of  crkme  de  menthe  resentfully.  He  did  not  care  for  the  green 
toffee-stuff.  Arthur  was  busy.  The  Major  lay  sprawled  in 
the  last  stages  of  everything  on  the  sofa,  holding  his  wife's 
hand.  And  the  music  came  pathetically  through  the  open 
folding-doors.  Of  course,  she  played  with  feeling — it  went 
without  saying.  Aaron's  soul  felt  rather  tired.  But  she  had 
a  touch  of  discrimination  also. 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  drawing-room.  It  was  a  large, 
vacant-seeming,  Empire  sort  of  drawing-room,  with  yellow 
silk  chairs  along  the  walls  and  yellow  silk  panels  upon  the 
walls,  and  a  huge,  vasty  crystal  chandelier  hanging  from  a  far- 
away-above ceiling.  Lady  Franks  sat  at  a  large  black  Bech- 
stein  piano  at  one  end  of  this  vacant  yellow  state-room.  She 
sat,  a  little  plump  elderly  lady  in  black  lace,  for  all  the  world 
like  Queen  Victoria  in  Max  Beerbohm's  drawing  of  Alfred 
Tennyson  reading  to  her  Victorian  Majesty,  with  space  before 
her.  Arthur's  wife  was  bending  over  some  music  in  a  remote 
corner  of  the  big  room. 

Aaron  seated  himself  on  one  of  the  chairs  by  the  wall,  to 
listen.  Certainly  it  was  a  beautiful  instrument.  And  certainly, 
in  her  way,  she  loved  it.  But  Aaron  remembered  an  anthem  in 
which  he  had  taken  part  as  a  boy. 

His  eye  is  on  the  sparrow 
So  I  know  He  watches  me. 

For  a  long  time  he  had  failed  to  catch  the  word  sparrow, 
and  had  heard: 


2o6  AARON'S  ROD 

His  eye  is  on  the  spy-hole 
So  I  know  He  watches  me. 

Which  was  just  how  it  had  all  seemed  to  him,  as  a  boy. 

Now,  as  ever,  he  felt  the  eye  was  on  the  spy-hole.  There 
sat  the  woman  playing  music.  But  her  inward  eye  was  on 
the  spy-hole  of  her  vital  affairs — her  domestic  arrangements, 
her  control  of  her  household,  guests  and  husband  included. 
The  other  eye  was  left  for  the  music,  don't  you  know. 

Sir  William  appeared  hovering  in  the  doorway,  not  at  all 
liking  the  defection  of  Mr.  Aaron.  Then  he  retreated.  He 
seemed  not  to  care  for  music.  The  Major's  wife  hovered — 
felt  it  her  duty  to  aude,  or  play  audience — and  entered,  seat- 
ing herself  in  a  breath  of  lilac  and  amethyst  again  at  the  near 
distance.  The  Major,  after  a  certain  beating  about  the  bush, 
followed  and  sat  wrapt  in  dim  contemplation  near  his  wife. 
Arthur  luckily  was  still  busy  with  something. 

Aaron  of  course  made  proper  musical  remarks  in  the  inter- 
vals— ^Arthur's  wife  sorted  out  more  pieces.  Arthur  ap- 
peared— and  then  the  Colonel.  The  Colonel  tip- toed  beauti- 
fully across  the  wide  blank  space  of  the  Empire  room,  and 
seated  himself  on  a  chair,  rather  in  the  distance,  with  his  back 
to  the  wall,  facing  Aaron.  When  Lady  Franks  finished  her 
piece,  to  everybody's  amazement  the  Colonel  clapped  gaily 
to  himself  and  said  Bravo!  as  if  at  a  Cafe  Chantant,  looking 
round  for  his  glass.  But  there  was  no  glass.  So  he  crossed 
his  neatly-khakied  legs,  and  looked  rapt  again. 

Lady  Franks  started  with  a  vivace  Schumann  piece.  Every- 
body listened  in  sanctified  silence,  trying  to  seem  to  like  it. 
When  suddenly  our  Colonel  began  to  spring  and  bounce  in 
his  chair,  slinging  his  loose  leg  with  a  kind  of  rapture  up  and 
down  in  the  air,  and  capering  upon  his  posterior,  doing  a  sit- 
ting-down jig  to  the  Schumann  vivace.  Arthur,  who  had 
seated  himself  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  room,  winked 
with  wild  bliss  at  Aaron.  The  Major  tried  to  look  as  if  he 
noticed  nothing,  and  only  succeeded  in  looking  agonised. 
His  wife  studied  the  point  of  her  silver  shoe  minutely,  and 
peeped  through  her  hair  at  the  performance.  Aaron  grimly 
chuckled,  and  loved  the  Colonel  with  real  tenderness. 


WIE  ES  IHNEN  GEFAELLT  207 

And  the  game  went  on  while  the  vivace  lasted.  Up  and 
down  bounced  the  plump  Colonel  on  his  chair,  kicking  with 
his  bright,  black-patent  toe  higher  and  higher,  getting  quite 
enthusiastic  over  his  jig.  Rosy  and  unabashed,  he  was  worthy 
of  the  great  nation  he  belonged  to.  The  broad-seated  Empire 
chair  showed  no  signs  of  giving  way.  Let  him  enjoy  himself, 
away  there  across  the  yellow  Sahara  of  this  silk-panelled  salon. 
Aaron  felt  quite  cheered  up. 

"Well,  now,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "this  man  is  in  entire 
command  of  a  very  important  branch  of  the  British  Service 
in  Italy.    We  are  a  great  race  still." 

But  Lady  Franks  must  have  twigged.  Her  playing  went 
rather  stiff.  She  came  to  the  end  of  the  vivace  movement, 
and  abandoned  her  piece. 

"I  always  prefer  Schumann  in  his  vicace  moods,"  said 
Aaron. 

"Do  you?"  said  Lady  Franks.    "Oh,  I  don't  know." 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  Arthur's  wife  to  sing.  Arthur  seemed 
to  get  further  away:  if  it  was  possible,  for  he  was  at  the  re- 
motest remote  end  of  the  room,  near  the  gallery  doors.  The 
Colonel  became  quite,  pensive.  The  Major's  wife  eyed  the 
younng  woman  in  white  lace,  and  seemed  not  to  care  for  lace. 
Arthur  seemed  to  be  trying  to  push  himself  backwards  through 
the  wall.  Lady  Franks  switched  on  more  lights  into  the  vast  and 
voluminous  crystal  chandelier  which  hung  like  some  glory- 
cloud  above  the  room's  centre.  And  Arthur's  wife  sang  sweet 
little  French  songs,  and  Ye  Banks  and  Braes,  and  Caro  mio 
hen,  which  goes  without  saying:  and  so  on.  She  had  quite 
a  nice  voice  and  was  quite  adequately  trained.  Which  is 
enough  said.    Aaron  had  all  his  nerves  on  edge. 

Then  he  had  to  play  the  flute.  Arthur  strolled  upstairs 
with  him,  arm-in-arm,  where  he  went  to  fetch  his  instrument. 

"I  find  music  in  the  home  rather  a  strain,  you  know,"  said 
Arthur. 

"Cruel  strain.    I  quite  agree,"  said  Aaron. 

"I  don't  mind  it  so  much  in  the  theatre — or  even  a  concert 
— ^where  there  are  a  lot  of  other  people  to  take  the  edge  off — 
But  after  a  good  dinner — " 


2o8  AARON'S  ROD 

"It's  medicine/'  said  Aaron. 

"Well,  you  know,  it  really  is,  to  me.  It  affects  my  inside." 
Aaron  laughed.  And  then,  in  the  yellow  drawing-room, 
blew  into  his  pipe  and  played.  He  knew  so  well  that  Arthur, 
the  Major,  the  Major's  wife,  the  Colonel,  and  Sir  William 
thought  it  merely  an  intolerable  bore.  However,  he  played. 
His  hostess  even  accompanied  him  in  a  Mozart  bit. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

XX   SETTEMBRE 

Aaron  was  awakened  in  the  morning  by  the  soft  entrance  of 
the  butler  with  the  tray:  it  was  just  seven  o'clock.  Lady 
Franks'  household  was  punctual  as  the  sun  itself. 

But  our  hero  roused  himself  with  a  wrench.  The  very  act 
of  lifting  himself  from  the  pillow  was  like  a  fight  this  morn- 
ing. Why?  He  recognized  his  own  wrench,  the  pain  with 
which  he  struggled  under  the  necessity  to  move.  Why 
shouldn't  he  want  to  move?  Why  not?  Because  he  didn't 
want  the  day  in  front — the  plunge  into  a  strange  country, 
towards  nowhere,  with  no  aim  in  view.  True,  he  said  that 
ultimately  he  wanted  to  join  Lilly.  But  this  was  hardly  more 
than  a  sop,  an  excuse  for  his  own  irrational  behaviour.  He 
was  breaking  loose  from  one  connection  after  another;  and 
what  for?  Why  break  every  tie?  Snap,  snap,  snap  went  the 
bonds  and  ligatures  which  bound  him  to  the  life  that  had 
formed  him,  the  people  he  had  loved  or  liked.  He  found  all 
his  affections  snapping  off,  all  the  ties  which  united  him  with 
his  own  people  coming  asunder.  And  why?  In  God's  name, 
why?    What  was  there  instead? 

There  was  nothingness.  There  was  just  himself,  and  blank 
nothingness.  He  had  perhaps  a  faint  sense  of  Lilly  ahead  of 
him;  an  impulse  in  that  direction,  or  else  merely  an  illusion. 
He  could  not  persuade  himself  that  he  was  seeking  for  love,  for 
any  kind  of  unison  or  communion.  He  knew  well  enough  that 
the  thought  of  any  loving,  any  sort  of  real  coming  together  be- 
tween himself  and  anybody  or  anything,  was  just  objectionable 
to  him.  No — he  was  not  moving  towards  anything:  he  was 
moving  almost  violently  away  from  everything.  And  that 
was  what  he  wanted.  Only  that.  Only  let  him  not  run  into 
any  sort  of  embrace  with  anything  or  anybody — this  was  what 

209 


210  AARON'S  ROD 

he  asked.  Let  no  new  connection  be  made  between  himself 
and  anything  on  earth.  Let  all  old  connections  break.  This 
was  his  craving. 

Yet  he  struggled  under  it  this  morning  as  under  the  lid  of 
a  tomb.  The  terrible  sudden  weight  of  inertia!  He  knew 
the  tray  stood  ready  by  the  bed:  he  knew  the  automobile 
would  be  at  the  door  at  eight  o'clock,  for  Lady  Franks 
had  said  so,  and  he  half  divined  that  the  servant  had  also 
said  so:  yet  there  he  lay,  in  a  kind  of  paralysis  in  this  bed.  He 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  have  lost  his  will.  Why  go  for- 
ward into  more  nothingness,  away  from  all  that  he  knew, 
all  he  was  accustomed  to  and  all  he  belonged  to? 

However,  with  a  click  he  sat  up.  And  the  very  instant 
he  had  poured  his  coffee  from  the  little  silver  coffee-pot  into 
his  delicate  cup,  he  was  ready  for  anything  and  everything. 
The  sense  of  silent  adventure  took  him,  the  exhilarated  feeling 
that  he  was  fulfilling  his  own  inward  destiny.  Pleasant  to 
taste  was  the  coffee,  the  bread,  the  honey — delicious. 

The  man  brought  his  clothes,  and  again  informed  him  that 
the  automobile  would  be  at  the  door  at  eight  o'clock:  or  at 
least  so  he  made  out. 

"I  can  walk,"  said  Aaron. 

"Milady  ha  comandato  I'automobile,"  said  the  man  softly. 

It  was  evident  that  if  Milady  had  ordered  it,  so  it  must  be. 

So  Aaron  left  the  still-sleeping  house,  and  got  into  the  soft 
and  luxurious  car.  As  he  dropped  through  the  park  he  won- 
dered that  Sir  William  and  Lady  Franks  should  be  so  kind  to 
him:  a  complete  stranger.  But  so  it  was.  There  he  sat  in 
their  car.  He  wondered,  also,  as  he  ran  over  the  bridge  and 
into  the  city,  whether  this  soft-running  automobile  would  ever 
rouse  the  socialistic  bile  of  the  work-people.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  as  he  sat  among  the  snug  cushions,  he  realised 
what  it  might  be  to  be  rich  and  uneasy:  uneasy,  even  if  not 
afraid,  lurking  there  inside  an  expensive  car. — Well,  it  wasn't 
much  of  a  sensation  anyhow:  and  riches  were  stuffy,  like 
wadded  upholstery  on  everything.  He  was  glad  to  get  out  into 
the  fresh  air  of  the  common  crowd.  He  was  glad  to  be  in  the 
bleak,  not-very-busy  station.    He  was  glad  to  be  part  of  com- 


XX-  SETTEMBRE  211 

mon  life.  For  the  very  atmosphere  of  riches  seems  to  be 
stuffed  and  wadded,  never  any  real  reaction.  It  was  terrible, 
as  if  one's  very  body,  shoulders  and  arms,  were  upholstered 
and  made  cushiony.  Ugh,  but  he  was  glad  to  shake  off  him- 
self the  atmosphere  of  wealth  and  motor-cars,  to  get  out  of  it 
all.    It  was  like  getting  out  of  quilted  clothes. 

*'Well,"  thought  Aaron,  "if  this  is  all  it  amounts  to,  to  be 
rich,  you  can  have  riches.  They  talk  about  money  being 
power.  But  the  only  sort  of  power  it  has  over  me  is  to  bring 
on  a  kind  of  numbness,  which  I  fairly  hate.  No  wonder  rich 
people  don't  seem  to  be  really  alive.'* 

The  relief  of  escaping  quite  took  away  his  self-conscious 
embarrassment  at  the  station.  He  carried  his  own  bags, 
bought  a  third-class  ticket,  and  got  into  the  train  for  Milan 
without  caring  one  straw  for  the  comments  or  the  looks  of  the 
porters. 

It  began  to  rain.  The  rain  ran  across  the  great  plain  of 
north  Italy.  Aaron  sat  in  his  wood-seated  carriage  and 
smoked  his  pipe  in  sjlence,  looking  at  the  thick,  short  Lom- 
bards opposite  him  without  heeding  them.  He  paid  hardly 
any  outward  attention  to  his  surroundings,  but  sat  involved 
in  himself. 

In  Milan  he  had  been  advised  to  go  to  the  Hotel  Britannia, 
because  it  was  not  expensive,  and  English  people  went  there. 
So  he  took  a  carriage,  drove  round  the  green  space  in  front 
of  Milan  station,  and  away  into  the  town.  The  streets  were 
busy,  but  only  half-heartedly  so. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  every  new  move  he  made  was 
rather  an  effort.  Even  he  himself  wondered  why  he  was 
struggling  with  foreign  porters  and  foreign  cabmen,  being 
talked  at  and  not  understanding  a  word.  But  there  he  was. 
So  he  went  on  with  it. 

The  hotel  was  small  and  congenial.  The  hotel  porter 
answered  in  English.  Aaron  was  given  a  little  room  with  a 
tiny  balcony,  looking  on  to  a  quiet  street.  So,  he  had  a  home 
of  his  own  once  more.  He  washed,  and  then  counted  his 
money.  Thirty-seven  pounds  he  had:  and  no  more.  He 
stood  on  the  balcony  and  looked  at  the  people  going  by  below. 


212  AARON'S  ROD 

Life  seems  to  be  moving  so  quick,  when  one  looks  down  on  it 
from  above. 

Across  the  road  was  a  large  stone  house  with  its  green 
shutters  all  closed.  But  from  the  flagpole  under  the  eaves, 
over  the  central  window  of  the  uppermost  floor — the  house 
was  four  storeys  high — ^waved  the  Italian  flag  in  the  melan- 
choly damp  air.  Aaron  looked  at  it — the  red,  white  and  green 
tricolour,  with  the  white  cross  of  Savoy  in  the  centre.  It  hung 
damp  and  still.  And  there  seemed  a  curious  vacancy  in  the 
city — something  empty  and  depressing  in  the  great  human 
centre.  Not  that  there  was  really  a  lack  of  people.  But  the 
spirit  of  the  town  seemed  depressed  and  empty.  It  was  a 
national  holiday.  The  Italian  flag  was  hanging  from  almost 
every  housefront. 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Aaron  sat  in 
the  restaurant  of  the  hotel  drinking  tea,  for  he  was  rather  tired, 
and  looking  through  the  thin  curtains  at  the  little  square  out- 
side, where  people  passed:  little  groups  of  dark,  aimless-seem- 
ing men,  a  little  bit  poorer  looking — ^perhaps  rather  shorter 
in  stature — ^but  very  much  like  the  people  in  any  other  town. 
Yet  the  feeling  of  the  city  was  so  different  from  that  of  London. 
There  seemed  a  curious  emptiness.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but 
the  pavements  were  still  wet.    There  was  a  tension. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  noise  of  two  shots,  fired  in  rapid 
succession.  Aaron  turned  startled  to  look  into  the  quiet 
piazza.  And  to  his  amazement,  the  pavements  were  empty, 
not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  Two  minutes  before  the  place  was 
busy  with  passers-by,  and  a  newspaper  man  selling  the  Cor- 
riere, ,  and  little  carriages  rattling  through.  Now,  as  if  by 
magic,  nobody,  nothing.  It  was  as  if  they  had  all  melted  into 
thin  air. 

The  waiter,  too,  was  peeping  behind  the  curtain.  A  car- 
riage came  trotting  into  the  square — an  odd  man  took  his 
way  alone — the  traffic  began  to  stir  once  more,  and  people  re- 
appeared as  suddenly  as  they  had  disappeared.  Then  the 
waiter  ran  hastily  and  furtively  out  and  craned  his  neck, 
peering  round  the  square.    He  spoke  with  two  youths — rather 


XX  SETTEMBRE  2i3 

loutish  youths.  Then  he  returned  to  his  duty  in  the  hotel 
restaurant. 

"What  was  it?    What  were  the  shots?"  Aaron  asked  him. 

"Oh — somebody  shooting  at  a  dog,"  said  the  man  negli- 
gently. 

"At  a  dog!"  said  Aaron,  with  round  eyes. 

He  finished  his  tea,  and  went  out  into  the  town.  His  hotel 
was  not  far  from  the  cathedral  square.  Passing  through  the 
arcade,  he  came  in  sight  of  the  famous  cathedral  with  its 
numerous  spines  pricking  into  the  the  afternoon  air.  He  was 
not  as  impressed  as  he  should  have  been.  And  yet  there 
was  something  in  the  northern  city — this  big  square  with  all 
the  trams  threading  through,  the  little  yellow  Continental 
trams:  and  the  spiny  bulk  of  the  great  cathedral,  like  a  grey- 
purple  sea-urchin  with  many  spines,  on  the  one  side,  the  or- 
namental grass-plots  and  flower  beds  on  the  other:  the  big 
shops  going  all  along  the  further  strands,  all  round:  and  the 
endless  restless  nervous  drift  of  a  north  Italian  crowd,  so 
nervous,  so  twitchy;  nervous  and  twitchy  as  the  slipping  past 
of  the  little  yellow  tram-cars;  it  all  affected  him  with  a  sense 
of  strangeness,  nervousness,  and  approaching  winter.  It 
struck  him  the  people  were  afraid  of  themselves:  afraid  of 
their  own  souls,  and  that  which  was  in  their  own  souls. 

Turning  up  the  broad  steps  of  the  cathedral,  he  entered 
the  famous  building.  The  sky  had  cleared,  and  the  freshened 
light  shone  coloured  in  living  tablets  round  the  wonderful, 
towering,  rose-hearted  dusk  of  the  great  church.  At  some 
altars  lights  flickered  uneasily.  At  some  unseen  side  altar 
mass  was  going  on,  and  a  strange  ragged  music  fluttered  out 
on  the  incense-dusk  of  the  great  and  lofty  interior,  which  was 
all  shadow,  all  shadow,  hung  round  with  jewel  tablets  of  light. 
Particularly  beautiful  the  great  east  bay,  above  the  great  altar. 
And  all  the  time,  over  the  big-patterned  marble  floor,  the 
faint  click  and  rustle  of  feet  coming  and  going,  coming  and 
going,  like  shallow  uneasy  water  rustled  back  and  forth  in  a 
trough.  A  white  dog  trotted  pale  through  the  under-dusk, 
over  the  pale,  big-patterned  floor.    Aaron  came  to  the  side 


214  AARON'S  ROD 

altar  where  mass  was  going  on,  candles  ruddily  wavering. 
There  was  a  small  cluster  of  kneeling  women — a  ragged  hand- 
ful of  on-looking  men — and  people  wandering  up  and  wander- 
ing away,  young  women  with  neatly  dressed  black  hair,  and 
shawls,  but  without  hats;  fine  young  women  in  very  high 
heels;  young  men  with  nothing  to  do;  ragged  men  with 
nothing  to  do.  All  strayed  faintly  clicking  over  the  slabbed 
floor,  and  glanced  at  the  flickering  altar  where  the  white-sur- 
pliced  boys  were  curtseying  and  the  white-and-gold  priest  bow- 
ing, his  hands  over  his  breast,  in  the  candle-light.  All  strayed, 
glanced,  lingered,  and  strayed  away  again,  as  if  the  spectacle 
were  not  sufficiently  holding.  The  bell  chimed  for  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  Host.  But  the  thin  trickle  of  people  trickled  the 
same,  uneasily,  over  the  slabbed  floor  of  the  vastly-upreach- 
ing  shadow-foliaged  cathedral. 

The  smell  of  incense  in  his  nostrils,  Aaron  went  out  again 
by  a  side  door,  and  began  to  walk  along  the  pavements  of  the 
cathedral  square,  looking  at  the  shops.  Some  were  closed, 
and  had  little  notices  pinned  on  them.  Some  were  open, 
and  seemed  half-stocked  with  half-elegant  things.  Men  were 
crying  newspapers.  In  the  cafes  a  few  men  were  seated  drink- 
ing vermouth.  In  the  doorway  of  the  restaurants  waiters  stood 
inert,  looking  out  on  the  streets.  The  curious  heart-eating 
ennui  of  the  big  town  on  a  holiday  came  over  our  hero.  He 
felt  he  must  get  out,  whatever  happened.  He  could  not  bear 
it. 

So  he  went  back  to  his  hotel  and  up  to  his  room.  It  was 
still  only  five  o'clock.  And  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
himself.  He  lay  down  on  the  bed,  and  looked  at  the  painting 
on  his  bedroom  ceiling.  It  was  a  terrible  business  in  reckitt's 
blue  and  browny  gold,  with  awful  heraldic  beasts,  rather  worm- 
wriggly,  displayed  in  a  blue  field. 

As  he  lay  thinking  of  nothing  and  feeling  nothing  except  a 
certain  weariness,  or  dreariness,  or  tension,  or  God-knows- 
what,  he  heard  a  loud  hoarse  noise  of  humanity  in  the  dis- 
tance, something  frightening.  Rising,  he  went  on  to  his  little 
balcony.  It  was  a  sort  of  procession,  or  march  of  men,  here 
and  there  a  red  flag  fluttering  from  a  man's  fist.    There  had 


XX  SETTEMBRE  215 

been  a  big  meeting,  and  this  was  the  issue.  The  procession 
was  irregular,  but  powerful,  men  four  abreast.  They  emerged 
irregularly  from  the  small  piazza  to  the  street,  calling  and 
vociferating.  They  stopped  before  a  shop  and  clotted  into 
a  crowd,  shouting,  becoming  vicious.  Over  the  shop-door  hung 
a  tricolour,  a  national  flag.  The  shop  was  closed,  but  the  men 
began  to  knock  at  the  door.  They  were  all  workmen,  some 
in  railway  men's  caps,  mostly  in  black  felt  hats.  Some  wore 
red  cotton  neck-ties.  They  lifted  their  faces  to  the  national 
flag,  and  as  they  shouted  and  gesticulated  Aaron  could  see 
their  strong  teeth  in  their  jaws.  There  was  something  fright- 
ening in  their  lean,  strong  Italian  jaws,  something  inhuman 
and  possessed-looking  in  their  foreign,  southern-shaped  faces, 
so  much  more  formed  and  demon-looking  than  northern  faces. 
They  had  a  demon-like  set  purpose,  and  the  noise  of  their 
voices  was  like  a  jarring  of  steel  weapons.  Aaron  wondered 
what  they  wanted.  There  were  no  women — all  men — 
a  strange  male,  slashing  sound.  Vicious  it  was — the  head  of 
the  procession  swirling  like  a  little  pool,  the  thick  wedge  of  the 
procession  beyond,  flecked  with  red  flags. 

A  window  opened  above  the  shop,  and  a  frowsty-looking 
man,  yellow-pale,  was  quickly  and  nervously  hauling  in  the 
national  flag.  There  were  shouts  of  derision  and  mockery — 
a  great  overtone  of  acrid  derision — the  flag  and  its  owner 
ignominiously  disappeared.  And  the  procession  moved  on. 
Almost  every  shop  had  a  flag  flying.  And  every  one  of  these 
flags  now  disappeared,  quickly  or  slowly,  sooner  or  later,  in 
obedience  to  the  command  of  the  vicious,  derisive  crowd, 
that  marched  and  clotted  slowly  down  the  street,  having  its 
own  way. 

Only  one  flag  remained  flying — the  big  tricolour  that  floated 
from  the  top  storey  of  the  house  opposite  Aaron's  hotel. 
The  ground  floor  of  this  house  consisted  of  shop-premises — 
now  closed.  There  was  no  sign  of  any  occupant.  The  flag 
floated  inert  aloft. 

The  whole  crowd  had  come  to  a  stop  immediately  below 
the  hotel,  and  all  were  now  looking  up  at  the  green  and  white 
and  red  tricolour  which  stirred  damply  in  the  early  evening 


2i6  AARON'S  ROD 

light,  from  under  the  broad  eaves  of  the  house  opposite.  Aaron 
looked  at  the  long  flag,  which  drooped  almost  unmoved  from 
the  eaves-shadow,  and  he  half  expected  it  to  furl  itself  up 
of  its  own  accord,  in  obedience  to  the  will  of  the  masses.  Then 
he  looked  down  at  the  packed  black  shoulders  of  the  mob 
below,  and  at  the  curious  clustering  pattern  of  a  sea  of  black 
hats.  He  could  hardly  see  anything  but  hats  and  shoulders, 
uneasily  moving  like  boiling  pitch  away  beneath  him.  But 
the  shouts  began  to  come  up  hotter  and  hotter.  There  had 
been  a  great  ringing  of  a  door-bell  and  battering  on  the  shop- 
door.  The  crowd — the  swollen  head  of  the  procession — 
talked  and  shouted,  occupying  the  centre  of  the  street,  but 
leaving  the  pavement  clear.  A  woman  in  a  white  blouse  ap- 
peared in  the  shop-door.  She  came  out  and  looked  up  at  the 
flag  and  shook  her  head  and  gesticulated  with  her  hands. 
It  was  evidently  not  her  flag — she  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
The  leaders  again  turned  to  the  large  house-door,  and  began 
to  ring  all  the  bells  and  to  knock  with  their  knuckles.  But 
no  good — there  was  no  answer.  They  looked  up  again  at  the 
flag.  Voices  rose  ragged  and  ironical.  The  woman  explained 
something  again.  Apparently  there  was  nobody  at  home  in 
the  upper  floors — all  entrance  was  locked — there  was  no 
caretaker.  Nobody  owned  the  flag.  There  it  hung  under 
the  broad  eaves  of  the  strong  stone  house,  and  didn't  even 
know  that  it  was  guilty.  The  woman  went  back  into  her 
shop  and  drew  down  the  iron  shutter  from  inside. 

The  crowd,  nonplussed,  now  began  to  argue  and  shout  and 
whistle.  The  voices  rose  in  pitch  and  derision.  Steam  was 
getting  up.  There  hung  the  flag.  The  procession  crowded 
forward  and  filled  the  street  in  a  mass  below.  All  the  rest 
of  the  street  was  empty  and  shut  up.  And  still  hung  the 
showy  rag,  red  and  white  and  green,  up  aloft. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  lull — then  shouts,  half-encouraging, 
half-derisive.  And  Aaron  saw  a  smallish-black  figure  of  a 
youth,  fair-haired,  not  more  than  seventeen  years  old,  clinging 
like  a  monkey  to  the  front  of  the  house,  and  by  the  help  of 
the  heavy  drain-pipe  and  the  stone-work  ornamentation 
climbing   up   to   the   stone   ledge   that   ran   under   ground- 


XX  SETTEMBRE  217 

floor  windows,  up  like  a  sudden  cat  on  to  the  projecting  foot- 
ing. He  did  not  stop  there,  but  continued  his  race  like  some 
frantic  lizard  running  up  the  great  wall-front,  working  away 
from  the  noise  below,  as  if  in  sheer  fright.  It  was  one  unend- 
ing wriggling  movement,  sheer  up  the  front  of  the  impassive, 
heavy  stone  house. 

The  flag  hung  from  a  pole  under  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
top  storey — the  third  floor.  Up  went  the  wriggling  figure  of 
the  possessed  youth.  The  cries  of  the  crowd  below  were  now 
wild,  ragged  ejaculations  of  excitement  and  encouragement. 
The  youth  seemed  to  be  lifted  up,  almost  magically  on  the 
intense  upreaching  excitement  of  the  massed  men  below.  He 
passed  the  ledge  of  the  first  floor,  like  a  lizard  he  wriggled  up 
and  passed  the  ledge  or  coping  of  the  second  floor,  and  there 
he  was,  like  an  upward-climbing  shadow,  scrambling  on  to 
the  coping  of  the  third  floor.  The  crowd  was  for  a  second 
electrically  still  as  the  boy  rose  there  erect,  cleaving  to  the 
wall  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

But  he  did  not  hesitate  for  one  breath.  He  was  on  his 
feet  and  running  along  the  narrow  coping  that  went  across 
the  house  under  the  third  floor  windows,  running  there  on 
that  narrow  footing  away  above  the  street,  straight  to  the  flag. 
He  had  got  it — he  had  clutched  it  in  his  hand,  a  handful  of  it. 
Exactly  like  a  great  flame  rose  the  simultaneous  yell  of  the 
crowd  as  the  boy  jerked  and  got  the  flag  loose.  He  had  torn 
it  down.  A  tremendous  prolonged  yell,  touched  with  a  snarl 
of  triumph,  and  searing  like  a  puff  of  flame,  sounded  as  the 
boy  remained  for  one  moment  with  the  flag  in  his  hand  look- 
ing down  at  the  crowd  below.  His  face  was  odd  and  elated 
and  still.  Then  with  the  slightest  gesture  he  threw  the  flag 
from  him,  and  Aaron  watched  the  gaudy  remnant  falling 
towards  the  many  faces,  whilst  the  noise  of  yelling  rose  up 
unheard. 

There  was  a  great  clutch  and  hiss  in  the  crowd.  The  boy 
still  stood  unmoved,  holding  by  one  hand  behind  him,  looking 
down  from  above,  from  his  dangerous  elevation,  in  a  sort  of 
abstraction. 

And  the  next  thing  Aaron  was  conscious  of  was  the  soimd 


2i8  AARON'S  ROD 

of  trumpets.  A  sudden  startling  challenge  of  trumpets,  and 
out  of  nowhere  a  sudden  rush  of  grey-green  carabinieri  batter- 
ing the  crowd  wildly  with  truncheons.  It  was  so  sudden  that 
Aaron  heard  nothing  any  more.    He  only  saw. 

In  utmost  amazement  he  saw  the  greeny-grey  uniformed 
carabinieri  rushing  thick  and  wild  and  indiscriminate  on  the 
crowd:  a  sudden  new  excited  crowd  in  uniforms  attacking  the 
black  crowd,  beating  them  wildly  with  truncheons.  There  was 
a  seething  moment  in  the  street  below.  And  almost  instantan- 
eously the  original  crowd  burst  into  a  terror  of  frenzy.  The 
mob  broke  as  if  something  had  exploded  inside  it.  A  few 
black-hatted  men  fought  furiously  to  get  themselves  free  of 
the  hated  soldiers;  in  the  confusion  bunches  of  men  staggered, 
reeled,  fell,  and  were  struggling  among  the  legs  of  their  com- 
rades and  of  the  carabinieri.  But  the  bulk  of  the  crowd  just 
burst  and  fled — in  every  direction.  Like  drops  of  water 
they  seemed  to  fly  up  at  the  very  walls  themselves.  They 
darted  into  any  entry,  any  doorway.  They  sprang  up  the  walls 
and  clambered  into  the  ground-floor  windows.  They  sprang 
up  the  walls  on  to  window-ledges,  and  then  jumped  down 
again,  and  ran — clambering,  wriggling,  darting,  running  in 
every  direction;  some  cut,  blood  on  their  faces,  terror  or  frenzy 
of  flight  in  their  hearts.  Not  so  much  terror  as  the  frenzy  of 
running  away.    In  a  breath  the  street  was  empty. 

And  all  the  time,  there  above  on  the  stone  coping  stood  the 
long-faced,  fair-haired  boy,  while  four  stout  carabinieri  in 
the  street  below  stood  with  uplifted  revolvers  and  covered 
him,  shouting  that  if  he  moved  they  would  shoot.  So  there 
he  stood,  still  looking  down,  still  holding  with  his  left  hand 
behind  him,  covered  by  the  four  revolvers.  He  was  not  so 
much  afraid  as  twitchily  self-conscious  because  of  his  false 
position. 

Meanwhile  down  below  the  crowd  had  dispersed — melted 
momentaneously.  The  carabinieri  were  busy  arresting  the 
men  who  had  fallen  and  been  trodden  underfoot,  or  who  bad 
foolishly  let  themselves  be  taken;  perhaps  half  a  dozen  men, 
half  a  dozen  prisoners;  less  rather  than  more.    The  sergeant 


XX  SETTEMBRE  219 

ordered  these  to  be  secured  between  soldiers.  And  last  of 
all  the  youth  up  above,  still  covered  by  the  revolvers,  was 
ordered  to  come  down.  He  turned  quite  quietly,  and  quite 
humbly,  cautiously  picked  his  way  along  the  coping  towards 
the  drain-pipe.  He  reached  this  pipe  and  began,  in  humilia- 
tion, to  climb  down.    It  was  a  real  climb  down. 

Once  in  the  street  he  was  surrounded  by  the  grey  uniform-s. 
The  soldiers  formed  up.  The  sergeant  gave  the  order.  And 
away  they  marched,  the  dejected  youth  a  prisoner  between 
them. 

Then  were  heard  a  few  scattered  yells  of  derision  and  pro- 
test, a  few  shouts  of  anger  and  derision  against  the  carabinieri. 
There  were  once  more  gangs  of  men  and  groups  of  youths 
along  the  street.  They  sent  up  an  occasional  shout.  But  al- 
ways over  their  shoulders,  and  pretending  it  was  not  they  who 
shouted.  They  were  all  cowed  and  hang-dog  once  more,  and 
made  not  the  slightest  effort  to  save  the  youth.  Neverthe- 
less, they  prowled  and  watched,  ready  for  the  next  time. 

So,  away  went  the  prisoner  and  the  grey-green  soldiers, 
and  the  street  was  left  to  the  little  gangs  and  groups  of  hang- 
dog, discontented  men,  all  thoroughly  out  of  countenance.  The 
scene  was  ended. 

Aaron  looked  round,  dazed.  And  then  for  the  first  time  he 
noticed,  on  the  next  balcony  to  his  own,  two  young  men :  young 
gentlemen,  he  would  have  said.  The  one  was  tall  and  hand- 
some and  well-coloured,  might  be  Italian.  But  the  other, 
with  his  pale  thin  face  and  his  rimless  monocle  in  his  eye, 
he  was  surely  an  Englishman.  He  was  surely  one  of  the  young 
officers  shattered  by  the  war.  A  look  of  strange,  arch,  bird- 
like  pleasure  was  on  his  face  at  this  moment:  if  one  could 
imagine  the  gleaming  smile  of  a  white  owl  over  the  events 
that  had  just  passed,  this  was  the  impression  produced  on 
Aaron  by  the  face  of  the  young  man  with  the  monocle.  The 
other  youth,  the  ruddy,  handsome  one,  had  knitted  his  brows 
in  mock  distress,  and  was  glancing  with  a  look  of  shrewd 
curiosity  at  Aaron,  and  with  a  look  of  almost  self-satisfied 
excitement  first  to  one  end  of  the  street,  then  to  the  other. 


220  AARON'S  ROD 

^'But  imagine,  Angus,  it's  all  over!"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  arm  of  the  monocled  young  man,  and  making  great 
eyes — not  without  a  shrewd  glance  in  Aaron's  direction. 

"Did  you  see  him  fall!"  replied  Angus,  with  another  strange 
gleam. 

"Yes.    But  was  he  hurt—?'' 

"I  don't  know.  I  should  think  so.  He  fell  right  back  out 
of  that  on  to  those  stones!" 

"But  how  perfectly  aw  full  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like 
it?" 

"No.  It's  one  of  the  funniest  things  I  ever  did  see.  I  saw 
nothing  quite  like  it,  even  in  the  war — " 

Here  Aaron  withdrew  into  his  room.  His  mind  and  soul 
were  in  a  whirl.  He  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  did  not 
move  again  for  a  great  while.  When  he  did  move,  he  took 
his  flute  and  played  he  knew  not  what.  But  strange,  strange 
his  soul  passed  into  his  instrument.  Or  passed  half  into  his 
instrument.  There  was  a  big  residue  left,  to  go  bitter,  or  to 
ferment  into  gold  old  wine  of  wisdom. 

He  did  not  notice  the  dinner  gong,  and  only  the  arrival  of 
the  chamber-maid,  to  put  the  wash-table  in  order,  sent  him 
down  to  the  restaurant.  The  first  thing  he  saw,  as  he  entered, 
was  the  two  young  Englishmen  seated  at  a  table  in  a  corner 
just  behind  him.  Their  hair  was  brushed  straight  back  from 
their  foreheads,  making  the  sweep  of  the  head  bright  and  im- 
peccable, and  leaving  both  the  young  faces  clear  as  if  in  cameo. 
Angus  had  laid  his  monocle  on  the  table,  and  was  looking 
round  the  room  with  wide,  light-blue  eyes,  looking  hard,  like 
some  bird-creature,  and  seeming  to  see  nothing.  He  had  evi- 
dently been  very  ill:  was  still  very  ill.  His  cheeks  and  even 
his  jaw  seemed  shrunken,  almost  withered.  He  forgot  his  din- 
ner: or  he  did  not  care  for  it.    Probably  the  latter. 

"What  do  you  think,  Francis,"  he  said,  "of  making  a  plan 
to  see  Florence  and  Sienna  and  Orvieto  on  the  way  down, 
instead  of  going  straight  to  Rome?"  He  spoke  in  precise, 
particularly-enunciated  words,  in  a  public-school  manner,  but 
with  a  strong  twang  of  South  Wales. 

"Why,  Angus,"  came  the  graceful  voice  of  Francis,  "I 


XX  SETTEMBRE  *  221 

thought  we  had  settled  to  go  straight  through  via  Pisa." 
Francis  was  graceful  in  everything — in  his  tall,  elegant  figure, 
in  the  poses  of  his  handsome  head,  in  the  modulation  of  his 
voice. 

"Yes,  but  I  see  we  can  go  either  way — either  Pisa  or  Flor- 
ence. And  I  thought  it  might  be  nice  to  look  at  Florence  and 
Sienna  and  Orvieto.  I  believe  they're  very  lovely,"  came  the 
soft,  precise  voice  of  Angus,  ending  in  a  touch  of  odd  emotion 
on  the  words  "very  lovely,"  as  if  it  were  a  new  experience  to 
him  to  be  using  them. 

"I'm  sure  they're  marvellous.  I'm  quite  sure  they're  mar- 
vellously beautiful,"  said  Francis,  in  his  assured,  elegant  way. 
"Well,  then,  Angus — suppose  we  do  that,  then? — ^When  shall 
we  start?" 

Angus  was  the  nervous  insister.  Francis  was  quite  occupied 
with  his  own  thoughts  and  calculations  and  curiosity.  For 
he  was  very  curious,  not  to  say  inquisitive.  And  at  the  present 
moment  he  had  a  new  subject  to  ponder. 

This  new  subject  was  Aaron,  who  sat  with  his  back  to  our 
new  couple,  and  who,  with  his  fine  sharp  ears,  caught  every 
word  that  they  said.  Aaron's  back  was  broad  enough,  and 
his  shoulders  square,  and  his  head  rather  small  and  fairish 
and  well-shaped — and  Francis  was  intrigued.  He  wanted  to 
know,  was  the  man  English.  He  looked  so  English — ^yet  he 
might  be — he  might  perhaps  be  Danish,  Scandinavian,  or 
Dutch.  Therefore,  the  elegant  young  man  watched  and 
listened  with  all  his  ears. 

The  waiter  who  had  brought  Aaron  his  soup  now  came  very 
free  and  easy,  to  ask  for  further  orders. 

"What  would  you  like  to  drink?  Wine?  Chianti?  Or 
white  wine?  Or  beer?" — The  old-fashioned  "Sir"  was 
dropped.    It  is  too  old-fashioned  now,  since  the  war. 

"What  shotdd  I  drink?"  said  Aaron,  whose  acquaintance 
with  wines  was  not  very  large. 

"Half-litre  of  Chianti:  that  is  very  good,"  said  the  waiter, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knew  only  too  well  how  to  bring 
up  his  betters,  and  train  them  in  the  way  they  should  go. 

"All  right,"  said  Aarou. 


222  AARON'S  ROD 

The  welcome  sound  of  these  two  magic  words,  All  Right! 
was  what  the  waiter  most  desired.  ''AH  right!  Yes!  All 
Right!"  This  is  the  pith,  the  marrow,  the  sum  and  essence 
of  the  English  language  to  a  southerner.  Of  course  it  is  not 
all  right.  It  is  Or -rye — and  one  word  at  that.  The  blow  that 
would  be  given  to  most  foreign  waiters,  if  they  were  forced 
to  realize  that  the  famous  orye  was  really  composed  of  two 
words,  and  spelt  all  rights  would  be  too  cruel,  perhaps. 

"Half  litre  Chianti.  Orye,"  said  the  waiter.  And  we'll  let 
him  say  it. 

"English!"  whispered  Francis  melodramatically  in  the  ear 
of  Angus.     "I  thought  so.     The  flautist." 

Angus  put  in  his  monocle,  and  stared  at  the  oblivious 
shoulders  of  Aaron,  without  apparently  seeing  anything. 

"Yes.    Obviously  English,"  said  Angus,  pursing  like  a  bird. 

"Oh,  but  I  heard  him,"  whispered  Francis  emphatically. 

"Quite,"  said  Angus.     "But  quite  inoffensive." 

"Oh,  but  Angus,  my  dear — he's  the  flautist.  Don't  you 
remember?  The  divine  bit  of  Scriabin.  At  least  I  believe 
it  was  Scriabin. — But  perfectly  divine///  I  adore  the  flute 
above  all  things — "  And  Francis  placed  his  hand  on  Angus' 
arm,  and  rolled  his  eyes — Lay  this  to  the  credit  of  a  bottle  of 
Lacrimae  Cristi,  if  you  like." 

"Yes.  So  do  I,"  said  Angus,  again  looking  archly  through 
the  monocle,  and  seeing  nothing.  "I  wonder  what  he's  doing 
here." 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  ask  him?"  said  Francis,  in  a 
vehement  whisper.  "After  all,  we  are  the  only  three  English 
people  in  the  place." 

"For  the  moment,  apparently  we  are,"  said  Angus.  "But 
the  English  are  all  over  the  place  wherever  you  go,  like  bits 
of  orange  peel  in  the  street.    Don't  forget  that,  Francesco." 

"No,  Angus,  I  don't.  The  point  is,  his  flute  is  perfectly 
divine — and  he  seems  quite  attractive  in  himself.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

"Oh,  quite,"  said  Angus,  whose  observations  had  got  no  fur- 
ther than  the  black  cloth  of  the  back  of  Aaron's  jacket.  That 
there  was  a  man  inside  he  had  not  yet  paused  to  consider. 


XX  SETTEMBRE  223 

"Quite  a  musician,"  said  Francis. 

"The  hired  sort,"  said  Angus,  "most  probably." 

"But  he  plays — he  plays  most  marvellously.  That  you  can't 
get  away  from,  Angus." 

"I  quite  agree,"  said  Angus. 

"Well,  then?  Don't  you  think  we  might  hear  him  again? 
Don't  you  think  we  might  get  him  to  play  for  us? — But  I 
should  love  it  more  than  anything." 

"Yes,  I  should,  too,"  said  Angus.  "You  might  ask  him  to 
coffee  and  a  liqueur." 

"I  should  like  to — most  awfully.  But  do  you  think  I 
might?" 

"Oh,  yes.  He  won't  mind  being  offered  a  coffee  and  liqueur. 
We  can  give  him  something  decent — ^Where's  the  waiter?" 
Angus  lifted  his  pinched,  ugly  bare  face  and  looked  round  with 
weird  command  for  the  waiter.  The  waiter,  having  not  much 
to  do,  and  feeling  ready  to  draw  these  two  weird  young  birds, 
allowed  himself  to  be  summoned. 

"Where's  the  wine  list?  What  liqueurs  have  you  got?" 
demanded  Angus  abruptly. 

The  waiter  rattled  off  a  list,  beginning  wtih  Strega  and 
ending  with  cherry  brandy. 

"Grand  Marnier,"  said  Angus.    "And  leave  the  bottle." 

Then  he  looked  with  arch  triumph  at  Francis,  like  a  wicked 
bird.  Francis  bit  his  finger  moodily,  and  glowered  with  hand- 
some, dark-blue,  uncertain  eyes  at  Mr.  Aaron,  who  was  just 
surveying  the  Frutte,  which  consisted  of  two  rather  old  pome- 
granates and  various  pale  yellow  apples,  with  a  sprinkling  of 
withered  dried  figs.  At  the  moment,  they  all  looked  like  a 
Natura  Morta  arrangement. 

"But  do  you  think  I  might — ?"  said  Francis  moodily. 
Angus  pursed  his  lips  with  a  reckless  brightness. 

"Why  not?  I  see  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't,"  he  said. 
Whereupon  Francis  cleared  his  throat,  disposed  of  his  ser- 
viette, and  rose  to  his  feet,  slowly  but  gracefully.  Then  he 
composed  himself,  and  took  on  the  air  he  wished  to  assume 
at  the  moment.  It  was  a  nice  degage  air,  half  naive  and  half 
enthusiastic.     Then  he  crossed  to  Aaron's  table,  and  stood 


224  AARON'S  ROD 

on  one  lounging  hip,  gracefully,  and  bent  forward  in  a  confi- 
dential manner,  and  said: 

"Do  excuse  me.  But  I  must  ask  you  if  it  was  you  we  heard 
playing  the  flute  so  perfectly  wonderfully,  just  before  dinner." 

The  voice  was  confidential  and  ingratiating.  Aaron,  re- 
lieved from  the  world's  stress  and  seeing  life  anew  in  the  rosy 
glow  of  half  a  litre  of  good  old  Chianti — the  war  was  so  near 
but  gone  by — looked  up  at  the  dark  blue,  ingenuous,  well- 
adapted  eyes  of  our  friend  Francis,  and  smiling,  said: 

"Yes,  I  saw  you  on  the  balcony  as  well." 

"Oh,  did  you  notice  us?"  plunged  Francis.  "But  wasn't  it 
an  extraordinary  affair?" 

"Very,"  said  Aaron.    "I  couldn't  make  it  out,  could  you?" 

"Oh,"  cried  Francis.  "I  never  try.  It's  all  much  too  new 
and  complicated  for  me. — But  perhaps  you  know  Italy?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Aaron. 

"Neither  do  we.  And  we  feel  rather  stunned.  We  had 
only  just  arrived — and  then — Oh  I"  Francis  put  up  his  hand 
to  his  comely  brow  and  rolled  his  eyes.  "I  feel  perfectly 
overwhelmed  with  it  still." 

He  here  allowed  himself  to  sink  friendlily  into  the  vacant 
chair  opposite  Aaron's. 

"Yes,  I  thought  it  was  a  bit  exciting,"  said  Aaron.  "I 
wonder  what  will  become  of  him — " 

" — Of  the  one  who  climbed  for  the  flag,  you  mean?  No! 
— But  wasn't  it  perfectly  marvellous!  Oh,  incredible,  quite 
incredible! — ^And  then  your  flute  to  finish  it  all!  Oh!  I  felt 
it  only  wanted  that. — I  haven't  got  over  it  yet.  But  your 
playing  was  marvellous,  really  marvellous.  Do  you  know, 
I  can't  forget  it.  You  are  a  professional  musician,  of 
course." 

"If  you  mean  I  play  for  a  living,"  said  Aaron.  "I  have 
played  in  orchestras  in  London." 

"Of  course!  Of  course!  I  knew  you  must  be  a  profes- 
sional.   But  don't  you  give  private  recitals,  too?" 

"No,  I  never  have." 

"Oh!"  cried  Francis,  catching  his  breath.  "I  can't  believe 
it.    But  you  play  marvellously  t    Oh,  I  just  loved  it,  it  simply 


XX  SETTEMBRE  225 

swept  me  away,  after  that  scene  in  the  street.  It  seemed  to 
sum  it  all  up,  you  know." 

"Did  it,"  said  Aaron,  rather  grimly. 

"But  won't  you  come  and  have  coffee  with  us  at  our  table?" 
said  Francis.    "We  should  like  it  most  awfully  if  you  would." 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Aaron,  half-rising. 

"But  you  haven't  had  your  dessert,"  said  Francis,  laying 
a  fatherly  detaining  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  other  man.  Aaron 
looked  at  the  detaining  hand. 

"The  dessert  isn't  much  to  stop  for,"  he  said.  "I  can  take 
with  me  what  I  want."  And  he  picked  out  a  handful  of  dried 
figs. 

The  two  went  across  to  Angus'  table. 

"We're  going  to  take  coffee  together,"  said  Francis  com- 
placently, playing  the  host  with  a  suave  assurance  that  was 
rather  amusing  and  charming  in  him. 

"Yes.  I'm  very  glad,"  said  Angus.  Let  us  give  the  show 
away:  he  was  being  wilfully  nice.  But  he  was  quite  glad;  to 
be  able  to  be  so  nice.  Anything  to  have  a  bit  of  life  going: 
especially  a  bit  of  pleased  life.  He  looked  at  Aaron's  comely, 
wine-warmed  face  with  gratification. 

"Have  a  Grand  Marnier,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  how  bad 
it  is.  Everything  is  bad  now.  They  lay  it  down  to  the  war  as 
well.  It  used  to  be  quite  a  decent  drink.  What  the  war  had 
got  to  do  with  bad  liqueurs,  I  don't  know." 

Aaron  sat  down  in  a  chair  at  their  table. 

"But  let  us  introduce  ourselves,"  said  Francis.  **I  am 
Francis — or  really  Franz  Dekker — And  this  is  Angus  Guest, 
my  friend." 

"And  my  name  is  Aaron  Sisson." 

"What!  What  did  you  say?"  said  Francis,  leaning  for- 
ward.   He,  too,  had  sharp  ears. 

"Aaron  Sisson." 

"Aaron  Sisson!  Oh,  but  how  amusing!  What  a  nice 
name! " 

"No  better  than  yours,  is  it?" 

"Mine!  Franz  Dekker!  Oh,  much  more  amusing,  /  think," 
said  Francis  archly. 


226  AARON'S  ROD 

"Oh,  well,  it's  a  matter  of  opinion.  You're  the  double 
decker,  not  me." 

"The  double  decker!"  said  Francis  archly.  "Why,  what 
do  you  mean! — "  He  rolled  his  eyes  significantly.  "But  may 
I  introduce  my  friend  Angus  Guest." 

"You've  introduced  me  already,  Francesco,"  said  Angus. 

"So  sorry,"  said  Francis. 

"Guest!"  said  Aaron. 

Francis  suddenly  began  to  laugh. 

"May  he  not  be  Guest?"  he  asked,  fatherly. 

"Very  likely,"  said  Aaron.  "Not  that  I  was  ever  good  at 
guessing." 

Francis  tilted  his  eyebrows.  Fortunately  the  waiter  ar- 
rived with  the  coffee. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Francis,  "will  you  have  your  coffee  black, 
or  with  milk?"  He  was  determined  to  restore  a  tone  of 
sobriety. 

The  coffee  was  sipped  in  sober  solemnity. 

"Is  music  your  line  as  well,  then?"  asked  Aaron. 

"No,  we're  painters.    We're  going  to  work  in  Rome." 

"To  earn  your  living?" 

"Not  yet." 

The  amount  of  discretion,  modesty,  and  reserve  which 
Francis  put  into  these  two  syllables  gave  Aaron  to  think  that 
he  had  two  real  young  swells  to  deal  with. 

"No,"  continued  Francis.  "I  was  only  just  down  from 
Oxford  when  the  war  came — and  Angus  had  been  about  ten 
months  at  the  Slade — But  I  have  always  painted. — So  now  we 
are  going  to  work,  really  hard,  in  Rome,  to  make  up  for  lost 
time. — Oh,  one  has  lost  so  much  time,  in  the  war.  And  such 
precious  time!  I  don't  know  if  ever  one  will  even  be  able  to 
make  it  up  again."  Francis  tilted  his  handsome  eyebrows  and 
put  his  head  on  one  side  with  a  wise-distressed  look. 

"No,"  said  Angus.  "One  will  never  be  able  to  make  it  up. 
What  is  more,  one  will  never  be  able  to  start  again  where 'one 
left  off.  We're  shattered  old  men,  now,  in  one  sense.  And  in 
another  sense,  we're  just  pre-war  babies." 

The  speech  was  uttered  with  an  odd  abruptness  and  didac- 


XX  SETTEMBRE  .227 

ticism  which  made  Aaron  open  his  eyes.  Angus  had  that 
peculiar  manner:  he  seemed  to  be  haranguing  himself  in  the 
circle  of  his  own  thoughts,  not  addressing  himself  to  his 
listener. 

So  his  listener  listened  on  the  outside  edge  of  the  young 
fellow's  crowded  thoughts.  Francis  put  on  a  distressed  air, 
and  let  his  attention  wander.  Angus  pursed  his  lips  and  his 
eyes  were  stretched  wide  with  a  kind  of  pleasure,  like  a  wicked 
owl  which  has  just  joyfully  hooted  an  ill  omen. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Francis  to  Aaron.  "Where  were  you  all 
the  time  during  the  war?" 

"I  was  doing  my  job,"  said  Aaron.  Which  led  to  his  ex- 
plaining his  origins. 

"Really!  So  your  music  is  quite  new  I  But  how  interest- 
ing!" cried  Francis. 

Aaron  explained  further. 

"And  so  the  war  hardly  affected  you?  But  what  did  you 
jeel  about  it,  privately?" 

"I  didn't  feel  much.  I  didn't  know  what  to  feel.  Other 
folks  did  such  a  lot  of  feeling,  I  thought  I'd  better  keep  my 
mouth  shut." 

"Yes,  quite!"  said  Angus.  "Everybody  had  such  a  lot  of 
feelings  on  somebody  else's  behalf,  that  nobody  ever  had  time 
to  realise  what  they  felt  themselves.  I  know  I  was  like  that. 
The  feelings  all  came  on  to  me  from  the  outside:  like  flies  set- 
tling on  meat.  Before  I  knew  where  I  was  I  was  eaten  up 
with  a  swarm  of  feelings,  and  I  found  myself  in  the  trenches. 
God  knows  what  for.  And  ever  since  then  I've  been  trying 
to  get  out  of  my  swarm  of  feelings,  which  buzz  in  and  out  of 
me  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  me.  I  realised  it  in  hospital. 
It's  exactly  like  trying  to  get  out  of  a  swarm  of  nasty  dirty 
flies.  And  every  one  you  kill  makes  you  sick,  but  doesn't 
make  the  swarm  any  less." 

Again  Angus  pursed  and  bridled  and  looked  like  a  pleased, 
wicked  white  owl.  Then  he  polished  his  monocle  on  a  very 
choice  silk  handkerchief,  and  fixed  it  unseeing  in  his  left  eye. 

But  Francis  was  not  interested  in  his  friend's  experiences. 
For  Francis  had  had  a  job  in  the  War  Office — whereas  Angus 


228  AARON'S  ROD 

was  a  war-hero  with  shattered  nerves.  And  let  him  depreciate 
his  own  experiences  as  much  as  he  liked,  the  young  man  with 
the  monocle  kept  tight  hold  on  his  prestige  as  a  war  hero. 
Only  for  himself,  though.  He  by  no  means  insisted  that  any- 
one else  should  be  war-bitten. 

Francis  was  one  of  those  men  who,  like  women,  can  set 
up  the  sympathetic  flow  and  make  a  fellow  give  himself  away 
without  realising  what  he  is  doing.  So  there  sat  our  friend 
Aaron,  amusingly  unbosoming  himself  of  all  his  history  and 
experiences,  drawn  out  by  the  arch,  subtle  attentiveness  of 
the  handsome  Francis.  Angus  listened,  too,  with  pleased 
amusedness  on  his  pale,  emaciated  face,  pursing  his  shrunken 
jaw.  And  Aaron  sipped  various  glasses  of  the  liqueur,  and 
told  all  his  tale  as  if  it  was  a  comedy.  A  comedy  it  seemed, 
too,  at  that  hour.  And  a  comedy  no  doubt  it  was.  But 
mixed,  like  most  things  in  this  life.     Mixed. 

It  was  quite  late  before  this  seance  broke  up:  and  the 
waiter  itching  to  get  rid  of  the  fellows. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Francis,  as  he  rose  from  the  table  and 
settled  his  elegant  waist,  resting  on  one  hip,  as  usual.  "We 
shall  see  you  in  the  morning,  I  hope.  You  say  you  are  going 
to  Venice.    Why?    Have  you  some  engagement  in  Venice?*' 

"No,"  said  Aaron.  "I  only  was  going  to  look  for  a  friend — 
Rawdon  Lilly." 

"Rawdon  Lilly!  Why,  is  he  in  Venice?  Oh,  IVe  heard 
such  a  lot  about  him.  I  should  like  so  much  to  meet  him. 
But  I  heard  he  was  in  Germany — " 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is." 

"Angus!     Didn't  we  hear  that  Lilly  was  in  Germany?" 

"Yes,  in  Munich,  being  psychoanalysed,  I  believe  it  was." 

Aaron  looked   rather   blank. 

"But  have  you  anything  to  take  you  to  Venice?  It's  such  a 
bad  climate  in  the  winter.  Why  not  come  with  us  to  Flor- 
ence?" said  Francis. 

Aaron  wavered.  He  really  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

"Think  about  it,"  said  Francis,  laying  his  hand  on  Aaron's 
arm.  "Think  about  it  tonight.  And  we'll  meet  in  the  morn- 
ing.   At  what  time?" 


XX  SETTEMBRE  229 

"Any  time,"  said  Aaron. 

"Well,  say  eleven.  We'll  meet  in  the  lounge  here  at  eleven. 
Will  that  suit  you?  All  right,  then.  It's  so  awfully  nice  meet- 
ing you.  That  marvellous  flute. — ^And  think  about  Flor- 
ence.   But  do  come.    Don't  disappoint  us." 

The  two  young  men  went  elegantly  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

The  next  day  but  one,  the  three  set  off  for  Florence.  Aaron 
had  made  an  excursion  from  Milan  with  the  two  young 
heroes,  and  dined  with  them  subsequently  at  the  most  ex- 
pensive restaurant  in  the  town.  Then  they  had  all  gone  home 
— and  had  sat  in  the  young  men's  bedroom  drinking  tea, 
whilst  Aaron  played  the  flute.  Francis  was  really  musical, 
and  enchanted.  Angus  enjoyed  the  novelty,  and  the  moderate 
patronage  he  was  able  to  confer.  And  Aaron  felt  amused  and 
pleased,  and  hoped  he  was  paying  for  his  treat. 

So  behold  them  setting  off  for  Florence  in  the  early  morn- 
ing. Angus  and  Francis  had  first-class  tickets:  Aaron  took  a 
third-class. 

"Come  and  have  lunch  with  us  on  the  train,"  said  Angus. 
"I'll  order  three  places,  and  we  can  lunch  together." 

"Oh,  I  can  buy  a  bit  of  food  at  the  station,"  said  Aaron. 

"No,  come  and  lunch  with  us.  It  will  be  much  nicer.  And 
we  shall  enjoy  it  as  well,"  said  Angus. 

"Of  course!  Ever  so  much  nicer!  Of  course!"  cried 
Francis.    "Yes,  why  not,  indeed!    Why  should  you  hesitate?" 

"All  right,  then,"  said  Aaron,  not  without  some  feeling  of 
constraint. 

So  they  separated.  The  young  men  settled  themselves 
amidst  the  red  plush  and  crochet-work,  looking,  with  their 
hair  plastered  smoothly  back,  quite  as  first  class  as  you  could 
wish,  creating  quite  the  right  impression  on  the  porters  and 
the  travelling  Italians.  Aaron  went  to  his  third-class,  further 
up  the  train. 

"Well,  then,  au  revoir,  till  luncheon,"  cried  Francis. 

The  train  was  fairly  full  in  the  third  and  second  classes. 
However,  Aaron  got  his  seat,  and  the  porter  brought  on  his 

230 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  231 

bags,  after  disposing  of  the  young  men^s  luggage.  Aaron  gave 
the  tip  uneasily.  He  always  hated  tipping — it  seemed  humil- 
iating both  ways.  And  the  airy  aplomb  of  the  two  young 
cavaliers,  as  they  settled  down  among  the  red  plush  and  the 
obsequiousness,  and  said  "Well,  then,  au  revoir  till  luncheon," 
was  peculiarly  unsettling:  though  they  did  not  intend  it  so. 

"The  porter  thinks  I^m  their  servant — their  valet,"  said 
Aaron  to  himself,  and  a  curious  half-amused,  half-contemp- 
tuous look  flickered  on  his  face.  It  annoyed  him.  The  fal- 
sity occasioned  by  the  difference  in  the  price  of  the  tickets 
was  really  humiliating.  Aaron  had  lived  long  enough  to  know 
that  as  far  as  manhood  and  intellect  went — nay,  even  educa- 
tion— he  was  not  the  inferior  of  the  two  young  "gentlemen." 
He  knew  quite  well  that,  as  far  as  intrinsic  nature  went,  they 
did  not  imagine  him  an  inferior:  rather  the  contrary.  They 
had  rather  an  exaggerated  respect  for  him  and  his  life-power, 
and  even  his  origin.  And  yet — they  had  the  inestimable  cash 
advantage — and  they  were  going  to  keep  it.  They  knew  it  was 
nothing  more  than  an  artificial  cash  superiority.  But  they 
gripped  it  all  the  more  intensely.  They  were  the  upper 
middle  classes.  They  were  Eton  and  Oxford.  And  they  were 
going  to  hang  on  to  their  privileges.  In  these  days,  it  is  a 
fool  who  abdicates  before  he^s  forced  to.    And  therefore: 

"Well,  then — au  revoir  till  luncheon." 

They  were  being  so  awfully  nice.  And  inwardly  they  were 
not  condescending.  But  socially,  they  just  had  to  be.  The 
world  is  made  like  that.  It  wasn't  their  own  private  fault. 
It  was  no  fault  at  all.  It  was  just  the  mode  in  which  they 
were  educated,  the  style  of  their  living.  And  as  we  know, 
le  style,  c'est  Vhomme. 

Angus  came  of  very  wealthy  iron  people  near  Merthyr. 
Already  he  had  a  very  fair  income  of  his  own.  As  soon  as 
the  law-business  concerning  his  father's  and  his  grandfather's 
will  was  settled,  he  would  be  well  off.  And  he  knew  it,  and 
valued  Himself  accordingly.  Francis  was  the  son  of  a  highly- 
esteemed  barrister  and  politician  of  Sydney,  and  in  his  day 
would  inherit  his  father's  lately-won  baronetcy.  But  Francis 
had  not  very  much  money:  and  was  much  more  class-flexible 


232  AARON'S  ROD 

than  Angus.  Angus  had  been  born  in  a  house  with  a  park, 
and  of  awful,  hard-willed,  money-bound  people.  Francis  came 
of  a  much  more  adventurous,  loose,  excitable  family,  he  had 
the  colonial  newness  and  adaptability.  He  knew,  for  his  own 
part,  that  class  superiority  was  just  a  trick,  nowadays.  Still, 
it  was  a  trick  that  paid.  And  a  trick  he  was  going  to  play 
as  long  as  it  did  pay. 

While  Aaron  sat,  a  little  pale  at  the  gills,  immobile,  rumi- 
nating these  matters,  a  not  very  pleasant  look  about  his  nose- 
end,  he  heard  a  voice: 

"Oh,  there  you  are\  I  thought  I'd  better  come  and  see,  so 
that  we  can  fetch  you  at  lunch  time. — ^You've  got  a  seat?  Are 
you  quite  comfortable?  Is  there  anything  I  could  get  you? 
Why,  you're  in  a  non-smoker! — But  that  doesn't  matter, 
everybody  will  smoke.  Are  you  sure  you  have  everything? 
Oh,  but  wait  just  one  moment — " 

It  was  Francis,  long  and  elegant,  with  his  straight 
shoulders  and  his  coat  buttoned  to  show  his  waist,  and  his 
face  so  well-formed  and  so  modern.  So  modern,  altogether. 
His  voice  was  pleasantly  modulated,  and  never  hurried.  He 
now  looked  as  if  a  thought  had  struck  him.  He  put  a  finger 
to  his  brow,  and  hastened  back  to  his  own  carriage.  In  a  min- 
ute, he  returned  with  a  new  London  literary  magazine. 

"Something  to  read — I  shall  have  to  fly — See  you  at  lunch," 
and  he  had  turned  and  elegantly  hastened,  but  not  too  fast, 
back  to  his  carriage.  The  porter  was  holding  the  door  for  him. 
So  Francis  looked  pleasantly  hurried,  but  by  no  means  rushed. 
Oh,  dear,  no.  He  took  his  time.  It  was  not  for  him  to  bolt 
and  scramble  like  a  mere  Italian. 

The  people  in  Aaron's  carriage  had  watched  the  apparition 
of  the  elegant  youth  intently.  For  them,  he  was  a  being  from 
another  sphere — no  doubt  a  young  milordo  with  power, 
wealth,  and  glamorous  life  behind  him.  Which  was  just 
what  Francis  intended  to  convey.  So  handsome — so  very, 
very  impressive  in  all  his  elegant  calm  showiness.  He  made 
such  a  bella  figura.  It  was  just  what  the  Italians  loved. 
Those  in  the  first  class  regions  thought  he  might  even  be  an 
Italian,  he  was  so  attractive. 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  233 

The  train  in  motion,  the  many  Italian  eyes  in  the  carriage 
studied  Aaron.  He,  too,  was  good-looking.  But  by  no  means 
as  fascinating  as  the  young  milordo.  Not  half  as  sympathetic. 
No  good  at  all  at  playing  a  role.  Probably  a  servant  of  the 
young  signori. 

Aaron  stared  out  of  the  window,  and  played  the  one  single 
British  role  left  to  him,  that  of  ignoring  his  neighbours,  isolat- 
ing himself  in  their  midst,  and  minding  his  own  business. 
Upon  this  insular  trick  our  greatness  and  our  predominance 
depends — such  as  it  is.  Yes,  they  might  look  at  him.  They 
might  think  him  a  servant  or  what  they  liked.  But  he  was 
inaccessible  to  them.  He  isolated  himself  upon  himself,  and 
there  remained. 

It  was  a  lovely  day,  a  lovely,  lovely  day  of  early  autumn. 
Over  the  great  plain  of  Lombardy  a  magnificent  blue  sky 
glowed  like  mid-summer,  the  sun  shone  strong.  The  great 
plain,  with  its  great  stripes  of  cultivation — without  hedges 
or  boundaries — ^how  beautiful  it  was!  Sometimes  he  saw  oxen 
ploughing.  Sometimes.  Oh,  so  beautiful,  teams  of  eight,  or 
ten,  even  of  twelve  pale,  great  soft  oxen  in  procession,  plough- 
ing the  dark  velvety  earth,  a  driver  with  a  great  whip  at  their 
head,  a  man  far  behind  holding  the  plough-shafts.  Beautiful 
the  soft,  soft  plunging  motion  of  oxen  moving  forwards. 
Beautiful  the  strange,  snaky  lifting  of  the  muzzles,  the  sway- 
ing of  the  sharp  horns.  And  the  soft,  soft  crawling  motion  of 
a  team  of  oxen,  so  invisible,  almost,  yet  so  inevitable.  Now 
and  again  straight  canals  of  water  flashed  blue.  Now  and 
again  the  great  lines  of  grey-silvery  poplars  rose  and  made 
avenues  or  lovely  grey  airy  quadrangles  across  the  plain. 
Their  top  boughs  were  spangled  with  gold  and  green  leaf. 
Sometimes  the  vine-leaves  were  gold  and  red,  a  patterning. 
And  the  great  square  farm-homesteads,  white,  red-roofed, 
with  their  out-buildings,  stood  naked  amid  the  lands,  with- 
out screen  or  softening.  There  was  something  big  and  ex- 
posed about  it  all.  No  more  the  cosy  English  ambushed 
life,  no  longer  the  cosy  littleness  of  the  landscape.  A  big- 
ness— and  nothing  to  shelter  the  unshrinking  spirit.  It  was 
all  exposed,  exposed  to  the  sweep  of  plain,  to  the  high,  strong 


234  AARON'S  ROD 

sky,  and  to  human  gaze.  A  kind  of  boldness,  an  indiffer- 
ence. Aaron  was  impressed  and  fascinated.  He  looked  with 
new  interest  at  the  Italians  in  the  carriage  with  him — for  this 
same  boldness  and  indifference  and  exposed  gesture.  And 
he  found  it  in  them,  too.  And  again  it  fascinated  him.  It 
seemed  so  much  bigger,  as  if  the  walls  of  life  had  fallen. 
Nay,  the  walls  of  English  life  will  have  to  fall. 

Sitting  there  in  the  third-class  carriage,  he  became  happy 
again.  The  presence  of  his  fellow-passengers  was  not  so 
hampering  as  in  England.  In  England,  everybody  seems  held 
tight  and  gripped,  nothing  is  left  free.  Every  passenger 
seems  like  a  parcel  holding  his  string  as  fast  as  he  can  about 
him,  lest  one  corner  of  the  wrapper  should  come  undone  and 
reveal  what  is  inside.  And  every  other  passenger  is  forced, 
by  the  public  will,  to  hold  himself  as  tight-bound  also.  Which 
in  the  end  becomes  a  sort  of  self-conscious  madness. 

But  here,  in  the  third  class  carriage,  there  was  no  tight 
string  round  every  man.  They  were  not  all  trussed  with 
self-conscious  string  as  tight  as  capons.  They  had  a  suf- 
ficient amount  of  callousness  and  indifference  and  natural 
equanimity.  True,  one  of  them  spat  continually  on  the  floor, 
in  large  spits.  And  another  sat  with  his  boots  all  unlaced 
and  his  collar  off,  and  various  important  buttons  undone. 
They  did  not  seem  to  care  if  bits  of  themselves  did  show, 
through  the  gaps  in  the  wrapping.  Aaron  winced — but  he 
preferred  it  to  English  tightness.  He  was  pleased,  he  was 
happy  with  the  Italians.  He  thought  how  generous  and  nat- 
ural they  were. 

So  the  towns  passed  by,  and  the  hours,  and  he  seemed  at 
last  to  have  got  outside  himself  and  his  old  conditions.  It 
seemed  like  a  great  escape.  There  was  magic  again  in  life — 
real  magic.  Was  it  illusion,  or  was  it  genuine?  He  thought 
it  was  genuine,  and  opened  his  soul  as  if  there  was  no  danger. 

Lunch-time  came.  Francis  summoned  Aaron  down  the 
rocking  train.  The  three  men  had  a  table  to  themselves, 
and  all  felt  they  were  enjoying  themselves  very  much  in- 
deed. Of  course  Francis  and  Angus  made  a  great  impression 
again.     But  in  the  dining  car  were  mostly  middle-class,  well- 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  235 

to-do  Italians.  And  these  did  not  look  upon  our  two  young 
heroes  as  two  young  wonders.  No,  rather  with  some  criti- 
cism, and  some  class-envy.  But  they  were  impressed.  Oh, 
they  were  impressed!  How  should  they  not  be,  when  our 
young  gentlemen  had  such  an  air!  Aaron  was  conscious  all 
the  time  that  the  fellow-diners  were  being  properly  impressed 
by  the  flower  of  civilisation  and  the  salt  of  the  earth,  namely, 
young,  well-to-do  Englishmen.  And  he  had  a  faint  premoni- 
tion, based  on  experience  perhaps,  that  fellow-passengers  in 
the  end  never  forgive  the  man  who  has  "impressed'^  them. 
Mankind  loves  being  impressed.  It  asks  to  be  impressed. 
It  almost  forces  those  whom  it  can  force  to  play  a  role  and 
to  make  an  impression.    And  afterwards,  never  forgives. 

When  the  train  ran  into  Bologna  Station,  they  were  still  in 
the  restaurant  car.  Nor  did  they  go  at  once  to  their  seats. 
Angus  had  paid  the  bill.  There  was  three-quarters-of-an- 
hour's  wait  in  Bologna. 

"You  may  as  well  come  down  and  sit  with  us,"  said  Fran- 
cis. "We've  got  nobody  in  our  carriage,  so  why  shouldn't 
we  all  stay  together  during  the  wait.  You  kept  your  own 
seat,  I  suppose." 

No,  he  had  forgotten.  So  when  he  went  to  look  for  it, 
it  was  occupied  by  a  stout  man  who  was  just  taking  off  his 
collar  and  wrapping  a  white  kerchief  round  his  neck.  The 
third  class  carriages  were  packed.  For  those  were  early  days 
after  the  war,  while  men  still  had  pre-war  notions  and  were 
poor.  Ten  months  would  steal  imperceptibly  by,  and  the 
mysterious  revolution  would  be  effected.  Then,  the  second 
class  and  the  first  class  would  be  packed,  indescribably 
packed,  crowded,  on  all  great  trains:  and  the  third  class 
carriages,  lo  and  behold,  would  be  comparatively  empty.  Oh, 
marvellous  days  of  bankruptcy,  when  nobody  will  condescend 
to  travel  third! 

However,  these  were  still  modest,  sombre  months  immedi- 
ately after  the  peace.  So  a  large  man  with  a  fat  neck  and 
a  white  kerchief,  and  his  collar  over  his  knee,  sat  in  Aaron's 
seat.  Aaron  looked  at  the  man,  and  at  his  own  luggage 
overhead.    The  fat  man  saw  him  looking  and  stared  back: 


236  AARON'S  ROD 

then  stared  also  at  the  luggage  overhead:  and  with  his  al- 
most invisible  north-Italian  gesture  said  much  plainer  than 
words  would  have  said  it:  "Go  to  hell.  I'm  here  and  I'm 
going  to  stop  here." 

There  was  something  insolent  and  unbearable  about  the 
look — and  about  the  rocky  fixity  of  the  large  man.  He  sat  as 
if  he  had  insolently  taken  root  in  his  seat.  Aaron  flushed 
slightly.  Francis  and  Angus  strolled  along  the  train,  outside, 
for  the  corridor  was  already  blocked  with  the  mad  Bologna 
rush,  and  the  baggage  belonging.  They  joined  Aaron  as  he 
stood  on  the  platform. 

"But  where  is  your  seat?"  cried  Francis,  peering  into  the 
packed  and  jammed  compartments  of  the  third  class. 

"That  man's  sitting  in  it." 

"Which?"  cried  Francis,  indignant. 

"The  fat  one  there — ^with  the  collar  on  his  knee." 

"But  it  was  your  seat — I" 

Francis'  gorge  rose  in  indignation.  He  mounted  into  the 
corridor.  And  in  the  doorway  of  the  compartment  he  bridled 
like  an  angry  horse  rearing,  bridling  his  head.  Poising  him- 
self on  one  hip,  he  stared  fixedly  at  the  man  with  the  collar 
on  his  knee,  then  at  the  baggage  aloft.  He  looked  down  at 
the  fat  man  as  a  bird  looks  down  from  the  eaves  of  a  house. 
But  the  man  looked  back  with  a  solid,  rock-like  impudence, 
before  which  an  Englishman  quails:  a  jeering,  immovable 
insolence,  with  a  sneer  round  the  nose  and  a  solid-seated 
posterior. 

"But,'*  said  Francis  in  English — none  of  them  had  any 
Italian  yet.  "But,"  said  Francis,  turning  round  to  Aaron, 
"that  was  your  seat?'*  and  he  flung  his  long  fore-finger  in  the 
direction  of  the  fat  man's  thighs. 

"Yes!"  said  Aaron. 

"And  he's  taken  it — !"  cried  Francis  in  indignation. 

"And  knows  it,  too,"  said  Aaron. 

"But — !"  and  Francis  looked  round  imperiously,  as  if  to 
summon  his  bodyguard.  But  bodyguards  are  no  longer 
forthcoming,  and  train-guards  are  far  from  satisfactory.  The 
fat  man  sat  on,  with  a  sneer-grin,  very  faint  but  very  ef- 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  237 

fective,  round  his  nose,  and  a  solidly-planted  posterior.  He 
quite  enjoyed  the  pantomime  of  the  young  foreigners.  The 
other  passengers  said  something  to  him,  and  he  answered 
laconic.  Then  they  all  had  the  faint  sneer-grin  round  their 
noses.  A  woman  in  the  corner  grinned  jeeringly  straight  in 
Francis'  face.  His  charm  failed  entirely  this  time:  and  as 
for  his  commandingness,  that  was  ineffectual  indeed.  Rage 
came  up  in  him. 

"Oh  well — something  must  be  done,"  said  he  decisively. 
"But  didn't  you  put  something  in  the  seat  to  reserve  it?" 

"Only  that  New  Statesman — but  he's  moved  it." 

The  man  still  sat  with  the  invisible  sneer-grin  on  his  face, 
and  that  peculiar  and  immovable  plant  of  his  Italian  posterior. 

"Mais — cette  place  etait  reservee — "  said  Francis,  moving  to 
the  direct  attack. 

The  man  turned  aside  and  ignored  him  utterly — then  said 
something  to  the  men  opposite,  and  they  all  began  to  show 
their  teeth  in  a  grin. 

Francis  was  not  so  easily  foiled.  He  touched  the  man 
on  the  arm.  The  man  looked  round  threateningly,  as  if  he 
had  been  struck. 

"Cette  place  est  reservee — par  ce  Monsieur — "  said  Francis 
with  hauteur,  though  still  in  an  explanatory  tone,  and  point- 
ing to  Aaron. 

The  Italian  looked  him,  not  in  the  eyes,  but  between  the 
eyes,  and  sneered  full  in  his  face.  Then  he  looked  with  con- 
tempt at  Aaron.  And  then  he  said,  in  Italian,  that  there  was 
room  for  such  snobs  in  the  first  class,  and  that  they  had  not 
any  right  to  come  occupying  the  place  of  honest  men  in  the 
third. 

"Gia!   Gia!"  barked  the  other  passengers  in  the  carriage. 

"Loro  possono  andare  prima  classa — prima  classaf*  said 
the  woman  in  the  corner,  in  a  very  high  voice,  as  if  talking  to 
deaf  people,  and  pointing  to  Aaron's  luggage,  then  along  the 
train  to  the  first  class  carriages. 

"C'e  posto  la,"  said  one  of  the  men,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

There  was  a  jeering  quality  in  the  hard  insolence  which 
made  Francis  go  very  red  and  Angus  very  white.     Angus 


238  AARON'S  ROD 

stared  like  a  death's-head  behind  his  monocle,  with  death- 
blue  eyes. 

"Oh,  never  mind.  Come  along  to  the  first  class.  I'll  pay 
the  difference.  We  shall  be  much  better  all  together.  Get 
the  luggage  down,  Francis.  It  wouldn't  be  possible  to  travel 
with  this  lot,  even  if  he  gave  up  the  seat.  There's  plenty 
of  room  in  our  carriage — and  I'll  pay  the  extra,"  said  Angus. 

He  knew  there  was  one  solution — and  only  one — Money. 

But  Francis  bit  his  finger.  He  felt  almost  beside  himself — 
and  quite  powerless.  For  he  knew  the  guard  of  the  train 
would  jeer  too.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  interfere  with  honest 
third-class  Bolognesi  in  Bologna  station,  even  if  they  have 
taken  another  man's  seat.  Powerless,  his  brow  knitted,  and 
looking  just  like  Mephistopheles  with  his  high  forehead  and 
slightly  arched  nose,  Mephistopheles  m  a  rage,  he  hauled 
down  Aaron's  bag  and  handed  it  to  Angus.  So  they  trans- 
ferred themselves  to  the  first-class  carriage,  while  the  fat  man 
and  his  party  in  the  third-class  watched  in  jeering,  triumphant 
silence.     Solid,  planted,  immovable,  in  static  triumph. 

So  Aaron  sat  with  the  others  amid  the  red  plush,  whilst  the 
train  began  its  long  slow  climb  of  the  Apennines,  stinking 
sulphurous  through  tunnels  innumerable.  Wonderful  the 
steep  slopes,  the  great  chestnut  woods,  and  then  the  great  dis- 
tances glimpsed  between  the  heights,  Firenzuola  away  and  be- 
neath, Turneresque  hills  far  off,  built  of  heaven-bloom,  not  of 
earth.  It  was  cold  at  the  summit-station,  ice  and  snow  in  the 
air,  fierce.  Our  travellers  shrank  into  the  carriage  again,  and 
wrapped  themselves  round. 

Then  the  train  began  its  long  slither  downhill,  still  through 
a  whole  necklace  of  tunnels,  which  fortunately  no  longer  stank. 
So  down  and  down,  till  the  plain  appears  in  sight  once  more, 
the  Arno  valley.  But  then  began  the  inevitable  hitch  that 
always  happens  in  Italian  travel.  The  train  began  to  hesitate 
— to  falter  to  a  halt,  whistling  shrilly  as  if  in  protest:  whistling 
pip-pip-pip  in  expostulation  as  it  stood  forlorn  among  the 
fields:  then  stealing  forward  again  and  stealthily  making  pace, 
gathering  speed,  till  it  had  got  up  a  regular  spurt:  then 
suddenly  the  brakes  came  on  with  a  jerk,  more  faltering  to 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  239 

a  halt,  more  whistling  and  pip-pip-pipping,  as  the  engine 
stood  jingling  with  impatience:  after  which  another  creak 
and  splash,  and  another  choking  off.  So  on  till  they  landed 
in  Prato  station:  and  there  they  sat.  A  fellow  passenger  told 
them,  there  was  an  hour  to  wait  here:  an  hour.  Something 
had  happened  up  the  line. 

"Then  I  propose  we  make  tea,'*  said  Angus,  beaming. 

"Why  not!  Of  course.  Let  us  make  tea.  And  I  will  look 
for  water." 

So  Aaron  and  Francis  went  to  the  restaurant  bar  and  filled 
the  little  pan  at  the  tap.  Angus  got  down  the  red  picnic 
case,  of  which  he  was  so  fond,  and  spread  out  the  various 
arrangements  on  the  floor  of  the  coupe.  He  soon  had  the 
spirit-lamp  burning,  the  water  heating.  Francis  proposed 
that  he  and  Aaron  should  dash  into  Prato  and  see  what  could 
be  bought,  whilst  the  tea  was  in  preparation.  So  off  they 
went,  leaving  Angus  like  a  busy  old  wizard  manipulating  his 
arrangements  on  the  floor  of  the  carriage,  his  monocle  beam- 
ing with  bliss.  The  one  fat  fellow-passenger  with  a  lurid 
striped  rug  over  his  knees  watched  with  acute  interest.  Every- 
body who  passed  the  doorway  stood  to  contemplate  the  scene 
with  pleasure.  Officials  came  and  studied  the  situation  with 
appreciation.  Then  Francis  and  Aaron  returned  with  a  large 
supply  of  roast  chestnuts,  piping  hot,  and  hard  dried  plums, 
and  good  dried  figs,  and  rather  stale  rusks.  They  found  the 
water  just  boiling,  Angus  just  throwing  in  the  tea-egg,  and 
the  fellow-passenger  just  poking  his  nose  right  in,  he  was  so 
thrilled. 

Nothing  pleased  Angus  so  much  as  thus  pitching  camp  in 
the  midst  of  civilisation.  The  scrubby  newspaper  packets  of 
chestnuts,  plums,  figs  and  rusks  were  spread  out:  Francis 
flew  for  salt  to  the  man  at  the  bar,  and  came  back  with  a 
little  paper  of  rock-salt:  the  brown  tea  was  dispensed  in  the 
silver-fitted  glasses  from  the  immortal  luncheon-case:  and  the 
picnic  was  in  full  swing.  Angus,  being  in  the  height  of  his 
happiness,  now  sat  on  the  seat  cross-legged,  with  his  feet 
under  him,  in  the  authentic  Buddha  fashion,  and  on  his  face 
the   queer   rapt   alert   look,    half    a    smile,    also    somewhat 


240  AARON'S  ROD 

Buddhistic,  holding  his  glass  of  brown  tea  in  his  hand.  He 
was  as  rapt  and  immobile  as  if  he  really  were  in  a  mystic  state. 
Yet  it  was  only  his  delight  in  the  tea-party.  The  fellow- 
passenger  peered  at  the  tea,  and  said  in  broken  French,  was 
it  good.  In  equally  fragmentary  French  Francis  said  very 
good,  and  offered  the  fat  passenger  some.  He,  however,  held 
up  his  hand  in  protest,  as  if  to  say  not  for  any  money  would 
he  swallow  the  hot-watery  stuff.  And  he  pulled  out  a  flask 
of  wine.    But  a  handful  of  chestnuts  he  accepted. 

The  train-conductor,  ticket-collector,  and  the  heavy  green 
soldier  who  protected  them,  swung  open  the  door  and  stared 
attentively.  The  fellow  passenger  addressed  himself  to  these 
new-comers,  and  they  all  began  to  smile  good-naturedly. 
Then  the  fellow-passenger — he  was  stout  and  fifty  and  had 
a  brilliant  striped  rug  always  over  his  knees — ^pointed  out 
the  Buddha-like  position  of  Angus,  and  the  three  in-starers 
smiled  again.  And  so  the  fellow-passenger  thought  he  must 
try  too.  So  he  put  aside  his  rug,  and  lifted  his  feet  from 
the  floor,  and  took  his  toes  in  his  hands,  and  tried  to  bring 
his  legs  up  and  his  feet  under  him.  But  his  knees  were  fat, 
his  trousers  in  the  direst  extreme  of  peril,  and  he  could  no 
more  manage  it  than  if  he  had  tried  to  swallow  himself.  So 
he  desisted  suddenly,  rather  scared,  whilst  the  three  bunched 
and  official  heads  in  the  doorway  laughed  and  jested  at  him, 
showing  their  teeth  and  teasing  him.  But  on  our  gypsy  party 
they  turned  their  eyes  with  admiration.  They  loved  the 
novelty  and  the  fun.  And  on  the  thin,  elegant  Angus  in  his 
new  London  clothes,  they  looked  really  puzzled,  as  he  sat  there 
immobile,  gleaming  through  his  monocle  like  some  Buddha 
going  wicked,  perched  cross-legged  and  ecstatic  on  the  red 
velvet  seat.  They  marvelled  that  the  lower  half  of  him  could 
so  double  up,  like  a  foot-rule.  So  they  stared  till  they  had 
seen  enough.  When  they  suddenly  said  "3uon  'appetito," 
withdrew  their  heads  and  shoulders,  slammed  the  door,  and 
departed. 

Then  the  train  set  off  also — ^and  shortly  after  six  arrived 
in  Florence.  It  was  debated  what  should  Aaron  do  in  Florence. 
The  young  men  had  engaged  a  room  at  Bertolini's  hotel,  on 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  241 

the  Lungarno.  Bertolini's  was  not  expensive — but  Aaron  knew 
that  his  friends  would  not  long  endure  hotel  life.  However, 
he  went  along  with  the  other  two,  trusting  to  find  a  cheaper 
place  on  the  morrow. 

It  was  growing  quite  dark  as  they  drove  to  the  hotel,  but 
still  was  light  enough  to  show  the  river  rustling,  the  Ponte 
Vecchio  spanning  its  little  storeys  across  the  flood,  on  its  low, 
heavy  piers:  and  some  sort  of  magic  of  the  darkening,  varied 
houses  facing,  on  the  other  side  of  the  stream.  Of  course 
they  were  all  enchanted. 

"I  knew,"  said  Francis,  "we  should  love  it." 

Aaron  was  told  he  could  have  a  little  back  room  and  pension 
terms  for  fifteen  lire  a  day,  if  he  stayed  at  least  fifteen  days. 
The  exchange  was  then  at  forty-five.  So  fifteen  lire  meant 
just  six-shillings-and-six  pence  a  day,  without  extras.  Extras 
meant  wine,  tea,  butter,  and  light.  It  was  decided  he  should 
look  for  something  cheaper  next  day. 

By  the  tone  of  the  young  men,  he  now  gathered  that  they 
would  prefer  it  if  he  took  himself  off  to  a  cheaper  place.  They 
wished  to  be  on  their  t)wn. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Francis,  "you  will  be  in  to  lunch  here, 
won^t  you?    Then  we'll  see  you  at  lunch." 

It  was  as  if  both  the  young  men  had  drawn  in  their  feelers 
now.  They  were  afraid  of  finding  the  new  man  an  incubus. 
They  wanted  to  wash  their  hands  of  him.  Aaron's  brow 
darkened. 

"Perhaps  it  was  right  your  love  to  dissemble 
But  why  did  you  kick  me  down  stairs?  .  .  ." 

Then  morning  found  him  out  early,  before  his  friends  had 
arisen.  It  was  sunny  again.  The  magic  of  Florence  at  once 
overcame  him,  and  he  forgot  the  bore  of  limited  means  and 
hotel  costs.  He  went  straight  out  of  the  hotel  door,  across 
the  road,  and  leaned  on  the  river  parapet.  There  ran  the 
Arno:  not  such  a  flood  after  all,  but  a  green  stream  with 
shoals  of  pebbles  in  its  course.  Across,  and  in  the  delicate 
shadow  of  the  early  sun,  stood  the  opposite  Lungarno,  the 


242  AARON'S  ROD 

old  flat  houses,  pink,  or  white,  or  grey  stone,  with  their  green 
shutters,  some  closed,  some  opened.  It  had  a  flowery  effect, 
the  skyline  irregular  against  the  morning  light.  To  the  right 
the  delicate  Trinita  bridge,  to  the  left,  the  old  bridge  with 
its  little  shops  over  the  river.  Beyond,  towards  the  sun, 
glimpses  of  green,   sky-bloomed  country:     Tuscany. 

There  was  a  noise  and  clatter  of  traffic:  boys  pushing  hand- 
barrows  over  the  cobble-stones,  slow  bullocks  stepping  side  by 
side,  and  shouldering  one  another  affectionately,  drawing  a 
load  of  country  produce,  then  horses  in  great  brilliant  scarlet 
cloths,  like  vivid  palls,  slowly  pulling  the  long  narrow  carts 
of  the  district:  and  men  hu-huing! — and  people  calling:  all  the 
sharp,  clattering  morning  noise  of  Florence. 

''Oh,  Angus!     Do  come  and  look!     Oh,  so  lovely!" 

Glancing  up,  he  saw  the  elegant  figure  of  Francis,  in  fine 
coloured-silk  pyjamas,  perched  on  a  small  upper  balcony, 
turning  away  from  the  river  towards  the  bedroom  again,  his 
hand  lifted  to  his  lips,  as  if  to  catch  there  his  cry  of  delight. 
The  whole  pose  was  classic  and  effective:  and  very  amusing. 
How  the  Italians  would  love  it! 

Aaron  slipped  back  across  the  road,  and  walked  away  under 
the  houses  towards  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  He  passed  the  bridge 
— and  passed  the  Uffizi — watching  the  green  hills  opposite, 
and  San  Miniato.  Then  he  noticed  the  over-dramatic  group 
of  statuary  in  the  Piazza  Mentana — male  and  physical  and 
melodramatic — and  then  the  corner  house.  It  was  a  big  old 
Florentine  house,  with  many  green  shutters  and  wide  eaves. 
There  was  a  notice  plate  by  the  door — "Pension  Nardini." 

He  came  to  a  full  stop.  He  stared  at  the  notice-plate, 
stared  at  the  glass  door,  and  turning  round,  stared  at  the 
over-pathetic  dead  soldier  on  the  arm  of  his  over-heroic  pistol- 
firing  comrade;  Mentana — and  the  date!  Aaron  wondered 
what  and  where  Mentana  was.  Then  at  last  he  summoned 
his  energy,  opened  the  glass  door,  and  mounted  the  first  stairs. 

He  waited  some  time  before  anybody  appeared.  Then  a 
maid-servant. 

"Can  I  have  a  room?"  said  Aaron. 

The  bewildered,  wild-eyed  servant  maid  opened  a  door  and 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  243 

showed  him  into  a  heavily-gilt,  heavily-plush  drawing-room 
with  a  great  deal  of  frantic  grandeur  about  it.  There  he  sat 
and  cooled  his  heels  for  half  an  hour.  Arrived  at  length  a 
stout  young  lady — handsome,  with  big  dark-blue  Italian  eyes 
— ^but  anaemic  and  too  stout. 

"Oh!"  she  said  as  she  entered,  not  knowing  what  else  to 
say. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Aaron  awkwardly. 

"Oh,  good-morning!  English!  Yes!  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry 
to  keep  you,  you  know,  to  make  you  wait  so  long.  I  was  up- 
stairs, you  know,  with  a  lady.    Will  you  sit?" 

"Can  I  have  a  room?"  said  Aaron. 

"A  room!    Yes,  you  can." 

"What  terms?" 

"Terms!  Oh!  Why,  ten  francs  a  day,  you  know,  pension 
— if  you  stay — How  long  will  you  stay?" 

"At  least  a  month,  I  expect." 

"A  month!     Oh  yes.    Yes,  ten  francs  a  day." 

"For  everything?" 

"Everything.  Yes,  everything.  Coffee,  bread,  honey  or 
jam  in  the  morning:  lunch  at  half-past  twelve;  tea  in  the 
drawing-room,  half -past  four:  dinner  at  half -past  seven:  all 
very  nice.  And  a  warm  room  with  the  sun — Would  you  like 
to  see?" 

So  Aaron  was  led  up  the  big,  rambling  old  house  to  the  top 
floor — then  along  a  long  old  corridor — and  at  last  into  a  big 
bedroom  with  two  beds  and  a  red  tiled  floor — a  little  dreary, 
as  ever — but  the  sun  just  beginning  to  come  in,  and  a  lovely 
view  on  to  the  river,  towards  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  and  at  the 
hills  with  their  pines  and  villas  and  verdure  opposite. 

Here  he  would  settle.  The  signorina  would  send  a  man 
for  his  bags,  at  half  past  two  in  the  afternoon. 

At  luncheon  Aaron  found  the  two  friends,  and  told  them 
of  his  move. 

"How  very  nice  for  you!  Ten  francs  a  day — but  that  is 
nothing.  I  am  so  pleased  youVe  found  something.  And 
when  will  you  be  moving  in?"  said  Francis. 

"At  half-past  two." 


244  AARON'S  ROD 

"Oh,  so  soon.  Yes,  just  as  well. — But  we  shall  see  you 
from  time  to  time,  of  'course.  What  did  you  say  the  address 
was?  Oh,  yes — ^just  near  the  awful  statue.  Very  well.  We 
can  look  you  up  any  time — and  you  will  find  us  here.  Leave 
a  message  if  we  should  happen  not  to  be  in — ^weVe  got  lots  of 
engagements — " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FLORENCE 

The  very  afternoon  after  Aaron's  arrival  in  Florence  the 
sky  became  dark,  the  wind  cold,  and  rain  began  steadily  to 
fall.  He  sat  in  his  big,  bleak  room  above  the  river,  and 
watched  the  pale  green  water  fused  with  yellow,  the  many- 
threaded  streams  fuse  into  one,  as  swiftly  the  surface  flood 
came  down  from  the  hills.  Across,  the  dark  green  hills  looked 
darker  in  the  wet,  the  umbrella  pines  held  up  in  vain  above 
the  villas.  But  away  below,  on  the  Lungarno,  traffic  rattled  as 
ever. 

Aaron  went  down  at  five  o'clock  to  tea,  and  found  himself 
alone  next  a  group  of  women,  mostly  Swedes  or  Danish  or 
Dutch,  drinking  a  peculiar  brown  herb-brew  which  tasted  like 
nothing  else  on  earth,  and  eating  two  thick  bits  of  darkish 
bread  smeared  with  a  brown  smear  which  hoped  it  was  jam, 
but  hoped  in  vain.  Unhappily  he  sat  in  the  gilt  and  red, 
massively  ornate  room,  while  the  foreign  women  eyed  him. 
Oh,  bitter  to  be  a  male  under  such  circumstances. 

He  escaped  as  soon  as  possible  back  to  his  far-off  regions, 
lonely  and  cheerless,  away  above.  But  he  rather  liked  the 
far-off  remoteness  in  the  big  old  Florentine  house:  he  did  not 
mind  the  peculiar  dark,  uncosy  dreariness.  It  was  not  really 
dreary:  only  indifferent.  Indifferent  to  comfort,  indifferent 
to  all  homeliness  and  cosiness.  The  over-big  furniture  try- 
ing to  be  impressive,  but  never  to  be  pretty  or  bright  or  cheer- 
ful. There  it  stood,  ugly  and  apart.  And  there  let  it  stand. — 
Neither  did  he  mind  the  lack  of  fire,  the  cold  sombreness  of 
his  big  bedroom.  At  home,  in  England,  the  bright  grate  and 
the  ruddy  fire,  the  thick  hearth-rug  and  the  man's  arm-chair, 
these  had  been  inevitable.  And  now  he  was  glad  to  get  away 
from  it  all.    He  was  glad  not  to  have  a  cosy  hearth,  and  his 

245 


246  AARON'S  ROD 

own  arm-chair.  He  was  glad  to  feel  the  cold,  and  to  breathe 
the  unwarmed  air.  He  preferred  the  Italian  way  of  no  fires, 
no  heating.  If  the  day  was  cold,  he  Was  willing  to  be  cold  too. 
If  it  was  dark,  he  was  willing  to  be  dark.  The  cosy  bright- 
ness of  a  real  home — it  had  stifled  him  till  he  felt  his  lungs 
would  burst.  The  horrors  of  real  domesticity.  No,  the  Italian 
brutal  way  was  better. 

So  he  put  his  overcoat  over  his  knee,  and  studied  some 
music  he  had  bought  in  Milan:  some  Pergolesi  and  the 
Scarlatti  he  liked,  and  some  Corelli.  He  preferred  frail, 
sensitive,  abstract  music,  with  not  much  feeling  in  it,  but  a 
certain  limpidity  and  purity.  Night  fell  as  he  sat  reading 
the  scores.  He  would  have  liked  to  try  certain  pieces  on  his 
flute.  But  his  flute  was  too  sensitive,  it  winced  from  the 
new  strange  surroundings,  and  would  not  blossom. 

Dinner  sounded  at  last — at  eight  o'clock,  or  something  after. 
He  had  to  learn  to  expect  the  meals  always  forty  minutes 
late.  Down  he  went,  down  the  long,  dark,  lonely  corridors 
and  staircases.  The  dining  room  was  right  downstairs.  But 
he  had  a  little  table  to  himself  near  the  door,  the  elderly  women 
were  at  some  little  distance.  The  only  other  men  were 
Agostino,  the  unshapely  waiter,  and  an  Italian  duke,  with  wife 
and  child  and  nurse,  the  family  sitting  all  together  at  a  table 
halfway  down  the  room,  and  utterly  pre-occupied  with  a  little 
yellow  dog. 

However,  the  food  was  good  enough,  and  sufficient,  and 
the  waiter  and  the  maid-servant  cheerful  and  bustling.  Every- 
thing felt  happy-go-lucky  and  informal,  there  was  no  par- 
ticular atmosphere.  Nobody  put  on  any  airs,  because  nobody 
in  the  Nardini  took  any  notice  if  they  did.  The  little  ducal 
dog  yapped,  the  ducal  son  shouted,  the  waiter  dropped  half 
a  dozen  spoons,  the  old  women  knitted  during  the  waits,  and 
all  went  off  so  badly  that  it  was  quite  pleasant..  Yes,  Aaron 
preferred  it  to  Bertolini's,  which  was  trying  to  be  efficient  and 
correct:  though  not  making  any  strenuous  effort.  Still, 
Bertolini's  was  much  more  up  to  the  scratch,  there  was  the 
tension  of  proper  standards.  Whereas  here  at  Nardini's, 
nothing  mattered  very  much. 


FLORENCE  247 

It  was  November.  When  he  got  up  to  his  far-off  room  again, 
Aaron  felt  almost  as  if  he  were  in  a  castle  with  the  draw- 
bridge drawn  up.  Through  the  open  window  came  the  sound 
of  the  swelling  Arnd,  as  it  rushed  and  rustled  along  over  its 
gravel-shoals.  Lights  spangled  the  opposite  side.  Traffic 
sounded  deep  below.  The  room  was  not  really  cold,  for  the 
summer  sun  so  soaks  into  these  thick  old  buildings,  that  it 
takes  a  month  or  two  of  winter  to  soak  it  out. — The  rain 
still  fell. 

In  the  morning  it  was  still  November,  and  the  dawn  came 
slowly.  And  through  the  open  window  was  the  sound  of  the 
river's  rushing.  But  the  traffic  started  before  dawn,  with  a 
bang  and  a  rattle  of  carts,  and  a  bang  and  jingle  of  tram- 
cars  over  the  not-distant  bridge.  Oh,  noisy  Florence  I  At 
half -past  seven  Aaron  rang  for  his  coffee:  and  got  it  at  a  few 
minutes  past  eight.  The  signorina  had  told  him  to  take  his 
coffee  in  bed. 

Rain  was  still  falling.  But  towards  nine  o'clock  it  lifted, 
and  he  decided  to  go  out.  A  wet,  wet  world.  Carriages  going 
by,  with  huge  wet  shiny  umbrellas,  black  and  with  many 
points,  erected  to  cover  the  driver  and  "the  tail  of  the  horse 
and  the  box-seat.  The  hood  of  the  carriage  covered  the  fare. 
Clatter-clatter  through  the  rain.  Peasants  with  long  wagons 
and  slow  oxen,  and  pale-green  huge  umbrellas  erected  for  the 
driver  to  walk  beneath.  Men  tripping  along  in  cloaks,  shawls, 
unbrellas,  anything,  quite  unconcerned.  A  man  loading  gravel 
in  the  river-bed,  in  spite  of  the  wet.  And  innumerable  bells 
ringing:  but  innumerable  bells.  The  great  soft  trembling  of 
the  cathedral  bell  felt  in  all  the  air. 

Anyhow  it  was  a  new  world.  Aaron  went  along  close  to  the 
tall  thick  houses,  following  his  nose.  And  suddenly  he  caught 
sight  of  the  long  slim  neck  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  up  above, 
in  the  air.  And  in  another  minute  he  was  passing  between 
massive  buildings,  out  into  the  Piazza  della  Signoria.  There 
he  stood  still  and  looked  round  him  in  real  surprise,  and  real 
joy.  The  flat  empty  square  with  its  stone  paving  was  all  wet. 
The  great  buildings  rose  dark.  The  dark,  sheer  front  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio  went  up  like  a  cliff,  to  the  battlements,  and 


248  AARON'S  ROD 

the  slim  tower  soared  dark  and  hawk-like,  crested,  high  above. 
And  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff  stood  the  great  naked  David,  white 
and  stripped  in  the  wet,  white  against  the  dark,  warm-dark 
cliff  of  the  building — and  near,  the  heavy  naked  men  of 
Bandinelli. 

The  first  thing  he  had  seen,  as  he  turned  into  the  square, 
was  the  back  of  one  of  these  Bandinelli  statues:  a  great  naked 
man  of  marble,  with  a  heavy  back  and  strong  naked  flanks 
over  which  the  water  was  trickling.  And  then  to  come  im- 
mediately upon  the  David,  so  much  whiter,  glistening  skin- 
white  in  the  wet,  standing  a  little  forward,  and  shrinking. 

He  may  be  ugly,  too  naturalistic,  too  big,  and  anything 
else  you  like.  But  the  David  in  the  Piazza  della  Signoria, 
there  under  the  dark  great  palace,  in  the  position  Michelangelo 
chose  for  him,  there,  standing  forward  stripped  and  exposed 
and  eternally  half-shrinking,  half-wishing  to  expose  himself, 
he  is  the  genius  of  Florence.  The  adolescent,  the  white,  self- 
conscious,  physical  adolescent:  enormous,  in  keeping  with  the 
stark,  grim,  enormous  palace,  which  is  dark  and  bare  as  he  is 
white  and  bare.  And  behind,  the  big,  lumpy  Bandinelli  men 
are  in  keeping  too.  They  may  be  ugly — but  they  are  there 
in  their  place,  and  they  have  their  own  lumpy  reality.  And 
this  morning  in  the  rain,  standing  unbroken,  with  the  water 
trickling  down  their  flanks  and  along  the  inner  side  of  their 
great  thighs,  they  were  real  enough,  representing  the  undaunted 
physical  nature  of  the  heavier  Florentines. 

Aaron  looked  and  looked  at  the  three  great  naked  men. 
David  so  much  white,  and  standing  forward,  self-conscious: 
then  at  the  great  splendid  front  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio:  and 
at  the  fountain  splashing  water  upon  its  wet,  wet  figures;  and 
the  distant  equestrian  statue;  and  the  stone-flagged  space  of 
the  grim  square.  And  he  felt  that  here  he  was  in  one  of  the 
world's  living  centres,  here,  in  the  Piazza  della  Signoria.  The 
sense  of  having  arrived — of  having  reached  a  perfect  centre 
of  the  human  world:  this  he  had. 

And  so,  satisfied,  he  turned  round  to  look  at  the  bronze 
Perseus  which  rose  just  above  him.  Benvenuto  Cellini's  dark 
hero  looked  female,  with  his  plump  hips  and  his  waist,  female 


FLORENCE  249 

and  rather  insignificant:  graceful,  and  rather  vulgar.  The 
clownish  Bandinellis  were  somehow  more  to  the  point. — ^Then 
all  the  statuary  in  the  Loggia!  But  that  is  a  mistake.  It 
looks  too  much  like  the  yard  of  a  monumental  mason. 

The  great,  naked  men  in  the  rain,  under  the  dark-grey 
November  sky,  in  the  dark,  strong  inviolable  square!  The 
wonderful  hawk-head  of  the  old  palace.  The  physical,  self- 
conscious  adolescent,  Michelangelo's  David,  shrinking  and 
exposing  himself,  with  his  white,  slack  limbs!  Florence, 
passionate,  fearless  Florence  had  spoken  herself  out. — ^Aaron 
was  fascinated  by  the  Piazza  della  Signoria.  He  never  went 
into  the  town,  nor  returned  from  it  to  his  lodging,  without 
contriving  to  pass  through  the  square.  And  he  never  passed 
through  it  without  satisfaction.  Here  men  had  been  at  their 
intensest,  most  naked  pitch,  here,  at  the  end  of  the  old  world 
and  the  beginning  of  the  new.  Since  then,  always  rather 
puling  and  apologetic. 

Aaron  felt  a  new  self,  a  new  life-urge  rising  inside  himself. 
Florence  seemed  to  start  a  new  man  in  him.  It  was  a  town 
of  men.  On  Friday  morning,  so  early,  he  heard  the  traffic. 
Early,  he  watched  the  rather  low,  two-wheeled  traps  of  the 
peasants  spanking  recklessly  over  the  bridge,  coming  in  to 
town.  And  then,  when  he  went  out,  he  found  the  Piazza  della 
Signoria  packed  with  men:  but  all,  all  men.  And  all  farmers, 
land-owners  and  land-workers.  The  curious,  fine-nosed  Tuscan 
farmers,  with  their  half-sardonic,  amber-coloured  eyes.  Their 
curious  individuality,  their  clothes  worn  so  easy  and  reckless, 
their  hats  with  the  personal  twist.  Their  curious  full  oval 
cheeks,  their  tendency  to  be  too  fat,  to  have  a  belly  and  heavy 
limbs.  Their  close-sitting  dark  hair.  And  above  all,  their 
sharp,  almost  acrid,  mocking  expression,  the  silent  curl  of  the 
nose,  the  eternal  challenge,  the  rock-bottom  unbelief,  and  the 
subtle  fearlessness.  The  dangerous,  subtle,  never-dying  fear- 
lessness, and  the  acrid  unbelief.  But  men!  Men!  A  town 
of  men,  in  spite  of  everything.  The  one  manly  quality,  un- 
dying, acrid  fearlessness.  The  eternal  challenge  of  the  un- 
quenched  human  soul.  Perhaps  too  acrid  and  challenging  to- 
day, when  there  is  nothing  left  to  challenge.    But  men — ^who 


250  AARON'S  ROD 

existed  without  apology  and  without  justification.  Men  who 
would  neither  justify  themselves  nor  apologize  for  themselves. 
Just  men.    The  rarest  thing  left  in  our  sweet  Christendom. 

Altogether  Aaron  was  pleased  with  himself,  for  being  in 
Florence.  Those  were  early  days  after  the  war,  when  as  yet 
very  few  foreigners  had  returned,  and  the  place  had  the  native 
sombreness  and  intensity.  So  that  our  friend  did  not  mind 
being  alone. 

The  third  day,  however,  Francis  called  on  him.  There  was 
a  tap  at  the  bedroom  door,  and  the  young  man  entered,  all 
eyes  of  curiosity. 

"Oh,  there  you  are!"  he  cried,  flinging  his  hand  and  twist- 
ing his  waist  and  then  laying  his  hand  on  his  breast.  "Such  a 
long  way  up  to  you!  But  miles — !  Well,  how  are  you?  Are 
you  quite  all  right  here?  You  are?  I'm  so  glad — ^weVe  been 
so  rushed,  seeing  people  that  we  haven't  had  a  minute.  But 
not  a  minute!  People!  People!  People!  Isn't  it  amazing  how 
many  there  are,  and  how  many  one  knows,  and  gets  to  know! 
But  amazing!  Endless  acquaintances! — Oh,  and  such  quaint 
people  here!  so  odd!  So  more  than  odd!  Oh,  extraordinary — !" 
Francis  chuckled  to  himself  over  the  extraordinariness.  Then 
he  seated  himself  gracefully  at  Aaron's  table.  "Oh,  music! 
What?  Corelli!  So  interesting!  So  very  c/ever,  these  people, 
weren't  they! — Corelli  and  the  younger  Scarlatti  and  all  that 
crowd."  Here  he  closed  the  score  again.  "But  now — look! 
Do  you  want  to  know  anybody  here,  or  don't  you?  I've  told 
them  about  you,  and  of  course  they're  dying  to  meet  you 
and  hear  you  play.  But  I  thought  it  best  not  to  mention  any- 
thing about — about  your  being  hard-up,  and  all  that.  I 
said  you  were  just  here  on  a  visit.  You  see  with  this  kind  of 
people  I'm  sure  it's  much  the  best  not  to  let  them  start  off  by 
thinking  you  will  need  them  at  all — or  that  you  might  need 
them.  Why  give  yourself  away,  anyhow?  Just  meet  them 
and  take  them  for  what  they're  worth — and  then  you  can  see. 
If  they  like  to  give  you  an  engagement  to  play  at  some  show 
or  other — ^well,  you  can  decide  when  the  time  comes  whether 
you  will  accept.  Much  better  that  these  kind  of  people 
shouldn't  get  it  into  their  heads  at  once  that  they  can  hire  your 


FLORENCE  251 

services.  It  doesn't  do.  They  haven't  enough  discrimination 
for  that.  Much  best  make  rather  a  favour  of  it,  than  sort  of  ask 
them  to  hire  you. — Don't  you  agree?    Perhaps  I'm  wrong." 

Aaron  sat  and  listened  and  wondered  at  the  wisdom  and 
the  genuine  kindness  of  the  young  beau.  And  more  still,  he 
wondered  at  the  profound  social  disillusionment.  This  hand- 
some collie  dog  was  something  of  a  social  wolf,  half  showing 
his  fangs  at  the  moment.  But  with  genuine  kindheartedness 
for  another  wolf.    Aaron  was  touched. 

*'Yes,  I  think  that's  the  best  way,"  he  said. 

"You  do!  Yes,  so  do  I.  Oh,  they  are  such  queer  people! 
Why  is  it,  do  you  think,  that  English  people  abroad  go  so  very 
queer — so  ultra-English — incredible  t — and  at  the  same  time 
so  perfectly  impossible?  But  impossible!  Pathological,  I 
assure  you. — And  as  for  their  sexual  behaviour — oh,  dear, 
don't  mention  it.  I  assure  you  it  doesn't  bear  mention. — ^And 
all  quite  flagrant,  quite  unabashed — under  the  cover  of  this 
fanatical  Englishness.  But  I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  all 
the  things.    It's  just  incredible." 

Aaron  wondered  how  on  earth  Francis  had  been  able  to 
discover  and  bear  witness  to  so  much  that  was  incredible,  in 
a  bare  two  days.  But  a  little  gossip,  and  an  addition  of  lurid 
imagination  will  carry  you  anywhere. 

"Well  now,"  said  Francis.     "What  are  you  doing  today?" 

Aaron  was  not  doing  anything  in  particular. 

"Then  will  you  come  and  have  dinner  with  us — ?" 

Francis  fixed  up  the  time  and  the  place — a  small  restaurant 
at  the  other  end  of  the  town.  Then  he  leaned  out  of  the 
window. 

"Fascinating  place!  Oh,  fascinating  place!"  he  said, 
soliloquy.  "And  you've  got  a  superb  view.  Almost  better 
than  ours,  I  think. — ^Well  then,  half-past  seven.  We're  meet- 
ing a  few  other  people,  mostly  residents  or  people  staying 
some  time.  We're  not  inviting  them.  Just  dropping  in,  you 
know — a  little  restaurant.  We  shall  see  you  then!  Well  then, 
a  rivederci  till  this  evening. — So  glad  you  like  Florence!  I'm 
simply  loving  it — revelling.    And  the  pictures! — Oh — " 

The  party  that  evening  consisted  all  of  men:     Francis  and 


252  AARON'S  ROD 

Angus,  and  a  writer,  James  Argyle,  and  little  Algy  Constable, 
and  tiny  Louis  Mee,  and  deaf  Walter  Rosen.  They  all  snapped 
and  rattled  at  one  another,  and  were  rather  spiteful  but  rather 
amusing.  Francis  and  Angus  had  to  leave  early.  They  had 
another  appointment.  And  James  Argyle  got  quite  tipsy,  and 
said  to  Aaron: 

"But,  my  boy,  don't  let  yourself  be  led  astray  by  the  talk  of 
such  people  as  Algy.  Beware  of  them,  my  boy,  if  you've  a 
soul  to  save.  If  you've  a  soul  to  save!"  And  he  swallowed 
the  remains  of  his  litre. 

Algy's  nose  trembled  a  little,  and  his  eyes  blinked. 

"And  if  you've  a  soul  to  losCy*  he  said,  "I  would  warn  you 
very  earnestly  against  Argyle."  Whereupon  Algy  shut  one  eye 
and  opened  the  other  so  wide,  that  Aaron  was  almost  scared. 

"Quite  right,  my  boy.  Ha!  Ha!  Never  a  truer  thing  said! 
Ha-ha-ha."  Argyle  laughed  his  Mephistophelian  tipsy  laugh. 
"Theyll  teach  you  to  save.  Never  was  such  a  lot  of  ripe  old 
savers!  Save  their  old  trouser-buttons!  Go  to  them  if  you 
want  to  learn  to  save.  Oh,  yes,  I  advise  it  seriously.  You'll 
lose  nothing — not  even  a  reputation. — ^You  may  lose  a  soul,  of 
course.  But  that's  a  detail,  among  such  a  hoard  of  bank- 
notes and  trouser-buttons.  Ha-ha!  What's  a  soul,  to 
them—?" 

"What  is  it  to  you,  is  perhaps  the  more  pertinent  question," 
said  Algy,  flapping  his  eyelids  like  some  crazy  owl.  "It  is 
you  who  specialise  in  the  matter  of  soul,  and  we  who  are  in 
need  of  enlightenment — " 

"Yes,  very  true,  you  are!  You  are  in  need  of  enlightenment. 
A  set  of  benighted  wise  virgins.  Ha-ha-ha!  That's  good, 
that — ^benighted  wise  virgins!  What — "  Argyle  put  his  red 
face  near  to  Aaron's,  and  made  a  moue,  narrowing  his  eyes 
quizzically  as  he  peered  up  from  under  his  level  grey  eye- 
brows. "Sit  in  the  dark  to  save  the  lamp-oil — ^And  all  no 
good  to  them. — ^When  the  bridegroom  cometh — !  Ha-ha!  Good 
that!  Good,  my  boy! — The  bridegroom — "  he  giggled  to  him- 
self. "What  about  the  bridegroom,  Algy,  my  boy?  Eh? 
What  about  him?  Better  trim  your  wick,  old  man,  if  it's  not 
too  late—" 


FLORENCE  253 

"We  were  talking  of  souls,  not  wicks,  Argyle,"  said  Algy. 

"Same  thing.  Upon  my  soul  it  all  amounts  to  the  same 
thing.  Where's  the  soul  in  a  man  that  hasn't  got  a  bed- 
fellow— eh? — answer  me  that!  Can't  be  done  you  know. 
Might  as  well  ask  a  virgin  chicken  to  lay  you  an  egg.'* 

"Then  there  ought  to  be  a  good  deal  of  it  about,"  said 
Algy. 

"Of  what?  Of  soul?  There  ought  to  be  a  good  deal  of  soul 
about? — Ah,  because  there's  a  good  deal  of — ,  you  mean. — 
Ah,  I  v/ish  it  were  so.  I  wish  it  were  so.  But,  believe  me, 
there's  far  more  damned  chastity  in  the  world,  than  anything 
else.  Even  in  this  town. — Call  it  chastity,  if  you  like.  I  see 
nothing  in  it  but  sterility.  It  takes  a  rat  to  praise  long  tails. 
Impotence  set  up  the  praise  of  chastity — believe  me  or  not — 
but  that's  the  bottom  of  it.  The  virtue  is  made  out  of  the 
necessity. — Ha-ha-ha! — Like  them  I  Like  them!  Ha-ha  I 
Saving  their  souls!  Why  they'd  save  the  waste  matter  of  their 
bodies  if  they  could.  Grieves  them  to  part  with  it. — Ha!  ha  I 
—ha!" 

There  was  a  pause.  Argyle  was  in  his  cups,  which  left  no 
more  to  be  said.  Algy,  quivering  and  angry,  looked  discon- 
certingly round  the  room  as  if  he  were  quite  calm  and  collected. 
The  deaf  Jewish  Rosen  was  smiling  down  his  nose  and  saying: 
"What  was  that  last?  I  didn't  catch  that  last,"  cupping  his 
ear  with  his  hand  in  the  frantic  hope  that  someone  would 
answer.    No  one  paid  any  heed. 

"I  shall  be  going,"  said  Algy,  looking  round.  Then  to 
Aaron  he  said,  "You  play  the  flute,  I  hear.  May  we  hear  you 
some  time?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron,  non-committal. 

"Well,  look  here — come  to  tea  tomorrow.  I  shall  have  some 
friends,  and  Del  Torre  will  play  the  piano.  Come  to  tea  to- 
morrow, will  you?" 

"Thank  you,  I  will." 

"And  perhaps  you'll  bring  your  flute  along." 

"Don't  you  do  any  such  thing,  my  boy.  Make  them 
entertain  you,  for  once. — They're  always  squeezing  an  en- 
tertainment   out   of    somebody — "    and   Argyle    desperately 


2  54  AARON'S  ROD 

emptied  the  remains  of  Algy's  wine  into  his  own  glass:  whilst 
Algy  stood  as  if  listening  to  something  far  off,  and  blinking 
terribly. 

^'Anyhow,"  he  said  at  length,  "you'll  come,  won't  you? 
And  bring  the  flute  if  you  feel  like  it." 

"Don't  you  take  that  flute,  my  boy,"  persisted  Argyle. 
"Don't  think  of  such  a  thing.  If  they  want  a  concert,  let  them 
buy  their  tickets  and  go  to  the  Teatro  Diana.  Or  to  Marchesa 
del  Torre's  Saturday  morning.    She  can  afford  to  treat  them." 

Algy  looked  at  Argyle,  and  blinked. 

"Well,"  he  said.    "I  hope  you'll  get  home  all  right,  Argyle." 

"Thank  you  for  your  courtesy,  Algy.  Won't  you  lend  me 
your  arm?" 

As  Algy  was  small  and  frail,  somewhat  .shaky,  and  as 
Argyle  was  a  finely  built,  heavy  man  of  fifty  or  more,  the  slap 
was  unkind. 

"Afraid  I  can't  tonight.    Good-night — " 

Algy  departed,  so  did  little  Mee,  who  had  sat  with  a  little 
delighted  disapproval  on  his  tiny,  bird-like  face,  without  say- 
ing anything.  And  even  the  Jew  Rosen  put  away  his  deaf- 
machine  and  began  awkwardly  to  take  his  leave.  His  long 
nose  was  smiling  to  itself  complacently  at  all  the  things  Argyle 
had  been  saying. 

When  he,  too,  had  gone,  Argyle  arched  his  brows  at  Aaron, 
saying: 

"Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  what  a  lot  they  are! — ^Little  Mee — 
looking  like  an  innocent  little  boy.  He's  over  seventy  if  he's 
a  day.  Well  over  seventy.  Well,  you  don't  believe  me.  Ask 
his  mother — ask  his  mother.  She's  ninety-five.  Old  lady  of 
ninety-five — "  Argyle  even  laughed  himself  at  his  own  pre- 
posterousness. 

"And  then  Algy — Algy's  not  a  fool,  you  know.  Oh,  he  can 
be  most  entertaining,  most  witty,  and  amusing.  But  he's 
out  of  place  here.  He  should  be  in  Kensington,  dandling 
round  the  ladies'  drawing  rooms  and  making  his  mots.  They're 
rich,  you  know,  the  pair  of  them.  Little  Mee  used  to  boast 
that  he  lived  on  eleven-and-three-pence  a  week.  Had  to,  poor 
chap.    But  then  what  does  a  white  mouse  like  that  need? 


FLORENCE  255 

Makes  a  heavy  meal  on  a  cheese-paring.  Luck,  you  know — 
but  of  course  he^s  come  into  money  as  well.  Rich  as  Croesus, 
and  still  lives  on  nineteen-and- two-pence  a  week.  Though  it's 
nearly  double,  of  course,  what  it  used  to  be.  No  wonder  he 
looks  anxious.  They  disapprove  of  me — oh,  quite  right,  quite 
right  from  their  own  point  of  view.  Where  would  their  money 
be  otherwise?  It  wouldn't  last  long  if  I  laid  hands  on  it — " 
he  made  a  devilish  quizzing  face.  "But  you  know,  they  get 
on  my  nerves.  Little  old  maids,  you  know,  little  old  maids. 
I'm  sure  I'm  surprised  at  their  patience  with  me. — But  when 
people  are  patient  with  you,  you  want  to  spit  gall  at  them. 
Don't  you?  Ha-ha-hal  Poor  old  Algy. — Did  I  lay  it  on  him 
tonight,  or  did  I  miss  him?" 

"I  think  you  got  him,"  said  Aaron. 

"He'll  never  forgive  me.  Depend  on  it,  hell  never  forgive 
me.  Ha-ha!  I  like  to  be  unforgiven.  It  adds  zest  to  one's 
intercourse  with  people,  to  know  that  they'll  never  forgive  one. 
Ha-ha-ha!  Little  old  maids,  who  do  their  knitting  with  their 
tongues.  Poor  old  Algy — ^he  drops  his  stitches  now.  Ha-ha- 
ha! — Must  be  eighty,  I  should  say." 

Aaron  laughed.  He  had  never  met  a  man  like  Argyle  before 
— and  he  could  not  help  being  charmed.  The  other  man  had 
a  certain  wicked  whimsicality  that  was  very  attractive,  when 
levelled  against  someone  else,  and  not  against  oneself.  He 
must  have  been  very  handsome  in  his  day,  with  his  natural 
dignity,  and  his  clean-shaven  strong  square  face.  But  now  his 
face  was  all  red  and  softened  and  inflamed,  his  eyes  had  gone 
small  and  wicked  under  his  bushy  grey  brows.  Still  he  had  a 
presence.  And  his  grey  hau*,  almost  gone  white,  was  still 
handsome. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  in  Florence?"  asked  Argyle. 

Aaron  explained. 

"Well,"  said  Argyle.  "Make  what  you  can  out  of  them, 
and  then  go.  Go  before  they  have  time  to  do  the  dirty  on 
you.  If  they  think  you  want  anything  from  them,  they'll 
treat  you  like  a  dog,  like  a  dog.  Oh,  they're  very  frightened 
of  anybody  who  wants  anything  of  them:  frightened  to  death. 
I  see  nothing  of  them. — Live  by  myself — see  nobody.    Can't 


2S6  AARON'S  ROD 

stand  it,  you  know:  their  silly  little  teaparties — simply  can't 
stand  it.  No,  I  live  alone — and  shall  die  alone. — ^At  least,  I 
sincerely  hope  so.  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  any  of  them 
hanging  round. *^ 

The  restaurant  was  empty,  the  pale,  malarial  waiter — ^he 
had  of  course  contracted  malaria  during  the  war — ^was  looking 
purple  round  the  eyes.  But  Argyle  callously  sat  on.  Aaron 
therefore  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Oh,  I'm  coming,  I'm  coming,"  said  Argyle. 

He  got  unsteadily  to  his  feet.  The  waiter  helped  him  on 
with  his  coat:  and  he  put  a  disreputable-looking  little  curly 
hat  on  his  head.    Then  he  took  his  stick. 

"Don't  look  at  my  appearance,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Argyle. 
"I  am  frayed  at  the  wrists — look  here!"  He  showed  the  cuffs 
of  his  overcoat,  just  frayed  through.  "I've  got  a  trunkful  of 
clothes  in  London,  if  only  somebody  would  bring  it  out  to  me. 
— Ready  then!     Avantil" 

And  so  they  passed  out  into  the  still  rainy  street.  Argyle 
lived  in  the  very  centre  of  the  town:  in  the  Cathedral  Square. 
Aaron  left  him  at  his  hotel  door. 

"But  come  and  see  me,"  said  Argyle.  "Call  for  me  at  twelve 
o'clock — or  just  before  twelve — and  let  us  have  luncheon  to- 
gether. What!  Is  that  all  right? — ^Yes,  come  just  before 
twelve. — ^When? — ^Tomorrow?  Tomorrow  morning?  Will  you 
come  tomorrow?" 

Aaron  said  he  would  on  Monday. 

"Monday,  eh!  You  say  Monday!  Very  well  then.  Don't 
you  forget  now.  Don't  you  forget.  For  I've  a  memory  like 
a  vice.  /  shan't  forget. — Just  before  twelve  then.  And  come 
right  up.  I'm  right  under  the  roof.  In  Paradise,  as  the  porter 
always  says.  Siamo  nel  paradiso.  But  he's  a  cretin.  As 
near  Paradise  as  I  care  for,  for  it's  devilish  hot  in  summer,  and 
damned  cold  in  winter.  Don't  you  forget  now — Monday, 
twelve  o'clock." 

And  Argyle  pinched  Aaron's  arm  fast,  then  went  unsteadily 
up  the  steps  to  his  hotel  door. 

The  next  day  at  Algy's  there  was  a  crowd     Algy  had  a 


FLORENCE  257 

very  pleasant  flat  indeed,  kept  more  scrupulously  neat  and 
finicking  than  ever  any  woman's  flat  was  kept.  So  today, 
with  its  bowls  of  flowers  and  its  pictures  and  books  and  old 
furniture,  and  Algy,  very  nicely  dressed,  fluttering  and  blink- 
ing and  making  really  a  charming  host,  it  was  all  very  delight- 
ful to  the  little  mob  of  visitors.  They  were  a  curious  lot,  it  is 
true:  everybody  rather  exceptional.  Which  though  it  may  be 
startling,  is  so  very  much  better  fun  than  everybody  all  alike. 
Aaron  talked  to  an  old,  old  Italian  elegant  in  side-curls,  who 
peeled  off  his  grey  gloves  and  studied  his  formalities  with  a 
delightful  Mid- Victorian  dash,  and  told  stories  about  a  plaint 
which  Lady  Suury  had  against  Lord  Marsh,  and  was  quite  in- 
comprehensible. Out  rolled  the  English  words,  like  plums 
out  of  a  burst  bag,  and  all  completely  unintelligible.  But  the 
old  beau  was  supremely  satisfied.  He  loved  talking  English, 
and  holding  his  listeners  spell-bound. 

Next  to  Aaron  on  the  sofa  sat  the  Marchesa  del  Torre,  an 
American  woman  from  the  Southern  States,  who  had  lived 
most  of  her  life  in  Europe.  She  was  about  forty  years  of  age, 
handsome,  well-dressed,  and  quiet  in  the  buzz  of  the  tea- 
party.  It  was  evident  she  was  one  of  Algy's  lionesses.  Now 
she  sat  by  Aaron,  eating  nothing,  but  taking  a  cup  of  tea  and 
keeping  still.  She  seemed  sad — or  not  well  perhaps.  Her  eyes 
were  heavy.  But  she  was  very  carefully  made  up,  and  very 
well  dressed,  though  simply:  and  sitting  there,  full-bosomed, 
rather  sad,  remote-seeming,  she  suggested  to  Aaron  a  modern 
Cleopatra  brooding,  Anthony-less. 

Her  husband,  the  Marchese,  was  a  little  intense  Italian  in 
a  colonel's  grey  uniform,  cavalry,  leather  gaiters.  He  had 
blue  eyes,  his  hair  was  cut  very  short,  his  head  looked  hard 
and  rather  military:  he  would  have  been  taken  for  an  Austrian 
officer,  or  even  a  German,  had  it  not  been  for  the  peculiar 
Italian  sprightliness  and  touch  of  grimace  in  his  mobile 
countenance.    He  was  rather  like  a  gnome — not  ugly,  but  odd. 

Now  he  came  and  stood  opposite  to  Signor  di  Lanti,  and 
quizzed  him  in  Italian.  But  it  was  evident,  in  quizzing  the 
old  buck,  the  little  Marchese  was  hovering  near  his  wife,  in  ear- 


258  AARON'S  ROD 

shot.  Algy  came  up  with  cigarettes,  and  she  at  once  began 
to  smoke,  with  that  peculiar  heavy  intensity  of  a  nervous 
woman. 

Aaron  did  not  say  anything — did  not  know  what  to  say.  He 
was  peculiarly  conscious  of  the  woman  sitting  next  to  him,  her 
arm  near  his.  She  smoked  heavily,  in  silence,  as  if  abstracted, 
a  sort  of  cloud  on  her  level,  dark  brows.  Her  hair  was  dark, 
but  a  softish  brown,  not  black,  and  her  skin  was  fair.  Her 
bosom  would  be  white. — ^Why  Aaron  should  have  had  this 
thought,  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  say. 

Manfredi,  her  husband,  rolled  his  blue  eyes  and  grimaced  as 
he  laughed  at  old  Lanti.  But  it  was  obvious  that  his  attention 
was  diverted  sideways,  towards  his  wife.  Aaron,  who  was 
tired  of  nursing  a  tea-cup,  placed  in  on  a  table  and  resumed 
his  seat  in  silence.  But  suddenly  the  little  Marchese  whipped 
out  his  cigarette-case,  and  making  a  little  bow,  presented  it  to 
Aaron,  saying: 

*' Won't  you  smoke?'' 

"Thank  you,"  said  Aaron. 

"Turkish  that  side — Virginia   there — ^you   see." 

"Thank  you,  Turkish,"  said  Aaron. 

The  little  officer  in  his  dove-grey  and  yellow  uniform 
snapped  his  box  shut  again,  and  presented  a  light. 

"You  are  new  in  Florence?"  he  said,  as  he  presented  the 
match. 

"Four  days,"  said  Aaron. 

"And  I  hear  you  are  musical." 

"I  play  the  flute — no  more." 

"Ah,  yes — but  then  you  play  it  as  an  artist,  not  as  an  ac- 
complishment." 

"But  how  do  you  know?"  laughed  Aaron. 

"I  was  told  so — and  I  believe  it." 

"That's  nice  of  you,  anyhow — But  you  are  a  musician 
too." 

"Yes — ^we  are  both  musicians — my  wife  and  I." 

Manfredi  looked  at  his  wife.  She  flicked  the  ash  off  her 
cigarette. 

"What  sort?"  said  Aaron. 


FLORENCE  259 

"Why,  how  do  you  mean,  what  sort?  We  are  dilettanti,  I 
suppose." 

"No — ^what  is  your  instrument?    The  piano?" 

"Yes — the  pianoforte.  And  my  wife  sings.  But  we  are 
very  much  out  of  practice.  I  have  been  at  the  war  four  years, 
and  we  have  had  our  home  in  Paris.  My  wife  was  in  Paris, 
she  did  not  wish  to  stay  in  Italy  alone.  And  so — ^you  see — 
everything  goes — " 

"But  you  will  begin  again?"  ' 

"Yes.  We  have  begun  already.  We  have  music  on  Satur- 
day mornings.  Next  Saturday  a  string  quartette,  and  violin 
solos  by  a  young  Florentine  woman — a  friend — very  good  in- 
deed, daughter  of  our  Professor  Tortoli,  who  composes — ^as 
you  may  know — " 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron. 

"Would  you  care  to  come  and  hear — ?" 

"Awfully  nice  if  you  would — "  suddenly  said  the  wife, 
quite  simply,  as  if  she  had  merely  been  tired,  and  not  talking 
before. 

"I  should  like  to  very  much — " 

"Do  come  then." 

While  they  were  making  the  arrangements,  Algy  came  up 
in  his  blandest  manner. 

"Now  Marchesa — might  we  hope  for  a  song?" 

"No — I  don't  sing  any  more,"  came  the  slow,  contralto 
reply. 

"Oh,  but  you  can't  mean  you  say  that  deliberately — " 

"Yes,  quite  deliberately — "  She  threw  away  her  cigarette 
and  opened  her  little  gold  case  to  take  another. 

"But  what  can  have  brought  you  to  such  a  disastrous 
decision?" 

"I  can't  say,"  she  replied,  with  a  little  laugh.  "The  war, 
probably." 

"Oh,  but  don't  let  the  war  deprive  us  of  this,  as  of  everything 
else." 

"Can't  be  helped,"  she  said.  "I  have  no  choice  in  the 
matter.  The  bird  has  flown — "  She  spoke  with  a  certain  heavy 
languor. 


26o  AARON'S  ROD 

"You  mean  the  bird  of  your  voice?  Oh,  but  that  is  quite 
impossible.  One  can  hear  it  calling  out  of  the  leaves  every 
time  you  speak." 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't  get  him  to  do  any  more  than  call  out 
of  the  leaves." 

"But — but — ^pardon  me — ^is  it  because  you  don't  intend 
there  should  be  any  more  song?    Is  that  your  intention?" 

"That  I  couldn't  say,"  said  the  Marchesa,  smoking,  smok- 
ing. 

"Yes,"  said  Manfredi.  "At  the  present  time  it  is  because 
she  will  not — not  because  she  cannot.  It  is  her  will,  as  you 
say." 

"Dear  me!  Dear  me!  said  Algy.  "But  this  is  really  an- 
other disaster  added  to  the  war  list. — But — but — ^will  none  of 
us  ever  be  able  to  persuade  you?"  He  smiled  half  cajoling, 
half  pathetic,  with  a  prodigious  flapping  of  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she.     "That  will  be  as  it  must  be." 

"Then  can't  we  say  it  must  be  song  once  more?" 

To  this  sally  she  merely  laughed,  and  pressed  out  her  half- 
smoked  cigarette. 

"How  very  disappointing!  How  very  cruel  of — of  fate — 
and  the  war — and — and  all  the  sum  total  of  evils,"  said  Algy. 

"Perhaps — "  here  the  little  and  piquant  host  turned  to 
Aaron. 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Sisson,  your  flute  might  call  out  the  bird  of 
song.  As  thrushes  call  each  other  into  challenge,  you  know. 
Don't  you  think  that  is  very  probable?" 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  Aaron. 

"But  you,  Marchesa.  Won't  you  give  us  hope  that  it  might 
be  so?" 

"I've  no  idea,  either,"  said  she.  "But  I  should  very  much 
like  to  hear  Mr.  Sisson's  flute.  It's  an  instrument  X  like 
extremely." 

"There  now.  You  see  you  may  work  the  miracle,  Mr. 
Sisson.   Won't  you  play  to  us?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  didn't  bring  my  flute  along,"  said  Aaron  "I 
didn't  want  to  arrive  with  a  little  bag." 


FLORENCE  261 

"Quite I"  said  Algy.  "What  a  pity  it  wouldn't  go  in  your 
pocket." 

"Not  music  and  all,"  said  Aaron. 

"Dear  me!  What  a  comble  of  disappointment.  I  never  felt 
so  strongly,  Marchesa,  that  the  old  life  and  the  old  world  had 
collapsed. — Really — I  shall  soon  have  to  try  to  give  up  being 
cheerful  at  all.*' 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  the  Marchesa.  "It  isn't  worth  the 
effort." 

"Ah I     I'm  glad  you  find  it  so.    Then  I  have  hope." 

She  merely  smiled,  indifferent. 

The  teaparty  began  to  break  up — Aaron  found  himself 
going  down  the  stairs  with  the  Marchesa  and  her  husband. 
They  descended  all  three  in  silence,  husband  and  wife  in 
front.    Once  outside  the  door,  the  husband  asked: 

"How  shall  we  go  home,  dear?  Tram  or  carriage — ?''  It 
was  evident  he  was  economical. 

"Walk,"  she  said,  glancing  over  her  shoulder  at  Aaron. 
"We  are  all  going  the  same  way,  I  believe." 

Aaron  said  where  he  lived.  They  were  just  across  the  river. 
And  so  all  three  proceeded  to  walk  through  the  town. 

"You  are  sure  it  won't  be  too  much  for  you — too  far?"  said 
the  little  officer,  taking  his  wife's  arm  solicitously.  She  was 
taller  than  he.    But  he  was  a  spirited  fellow. 

"No,  I  feel  like  walking." 

"So  long  as  you  don't  have  to  pay  for  it  afterwards." 

Aaron  gathered  that  she  was  not  well.  Yet  she  did  not  look 
ill — unless  it  were  nerves.  She  had  that  peculiar  heavy  remote 
quality  of  pre-occupation  and  neurosis. 

The  streets  of  Florence  were  very  full  this  Sunday  evening, 
almost  impassable,  crowded  particularly  with  gangs  of  grey- 
green  soldiers.  The  three  made  their  way  brokenly,  and  with 
difficulty.  The  Italian  was  in  a  constant  state  of  returning 
salutes.  The  grey-green,  sturdy,  unsoldierly  soldiers  looked 
at  the  woman  as  she  passed. 

"I  am  sure  you  had  better  take  a  carriage,"  said  Manfredi. 

"No— I  don't  mind  it.'* 


262  AARON'S  ROD 

"Do  you  feel  at  home  in  Florence?"  Aaron  asked  her. 

"Yes  —  as  much  as  anywhere.  Oh,  yes  —  quite  at 
home." 

"Do  you  like  it  as  well  as  anywhere?"    he  asked. 

"Yes — for  a  time.    Paris  for  the  most  part." 

"Never  America?" 

"No,  never  America.  I  came  when  I  was  quite  a  little  girl  to 
Europe — Madrid — Constantinople — Paris.  I  hardly  knew 
America  at  all." 

Aaron  remembered  that  Francis  had  told  him,  the  Mar- 
chesa's  father  had  been  ambassador  to  Paris. 

"So  you  feel  you  have  no  country  of  your  own?" 

"I  have  Italy.    I  am  Italian  now,  you  know." 

Aaron  wondered  why  she  spoke  so  muted,  so  numbed.  Man- 
fredi  seemed  really  attached  to  her — and  she  to  him.  They  were 
so  simple  with  one  another. 

They  came  towards  the  bridge  where  they  should  part. 

"Won't  you  come  and  have  a  cocktail?"  she  said. 

"Now?"  said  Aaron. 

"Yes.  This  is  the  right  time  for  a  cocktail.  What  time  is 
it,  Manfredi?" 

"Half  past  six.  Do  come  and  have  one  with  us,"  said  the 
Italian.    "We  always  take  one  about  this  time." 

Aaron  continued  with  them  over  the  bridge.  They  had 
the  first  floor  of  an  old  palazzo  opposite,  a  little  way  up  the 
hill.    A  man-servant  opened  the  door. 

"If  only  it  will  be  warm,"  she  said.  "The  apartment  is 
almost  impossible  to  keep  warm.  We  will  sit  in  the  little 
room." 

Aaron  found  himself  in  a  quite  warm  room  with  shaded 
lights  and  a  mixture  of  old  Italian  stiffness  and  deep  soft 
modern  comfort.  The  Marchesa  went  away  to  take  off  her 
wraps,  and  the  Marchese  chatted  with  Aaron.  The  little 
officer  was  amiable  and  kind,  and  it  was  evident  he  liked  his 
guest. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  room  where  we  have  music?" 
he  said.  "It  is  a  fine  room  for  the  purpose — we  used  before 
the  war  to  have  music  every  Saturday  morning,  from  ten  to 


FLORENCE  263 

twelve:  and  all  friends  might  come.  Usually  we  had  fifteen 
or  twenty  people.  Now  we  are  starting  again.  I  myself  enjoy 
it  so  much.  I  am  afraid  my  wife  isn't  so  enthusiastic  as  she 
used  to  be.  I  wish  something  would  rouse  her  up,  you  know. 
The  war  seemed  to  take  her  life  away.  Here  in  Florence  are 
so  many  amateurs.  Very  good  indeed.  We  can  have  very 
good  chamber-music  indeed.  I  hope  it  will  cheer  her  up  and 
make  her  quite  herself  again.  I  was  away  for  such  long 
periods,  at  the  front. — ^And  it  was  not  good  for  her  to  be 
alone. — I  am  hoping  now  all  will  be  better." 

So  saying,  the  little,  odd  officer  switched  on  the  lights  of 
the  long  salon.  It  was  a  handsome  room  in  the  Italian  mode 
of  the  Empire  period — beautiful  old  faded  tapestry  panels — 
reddish — and  some  ormolu  furniture — and  other  things  mixed 
in — rather  conglomerate,  but  pleasing,  all  the  more  pleasing. 
It  was  big,  not  too  empty,  and  seemed  to  belong  to  human 
life,  not  to  show  and  shut-upedness.  The  host  was  happy 
showing  it. 

"Of  course  the  flat  in  Paris  is  more  luxurious  than  this,"  he 
said.  x'But  I  prefer  this.  I  prefer  it  here."  There  was  a 
certain  wistfulness  as  he  looked  round,  then  began  to  switch 
off  the  lights. 

They  returned  to  the  little  salotta.  The  Marchesa  was 
seated  in  a  low  chair.  She  wore  a  very  thin  white  blouse, 
that  showed  her  arms  and  her  throat.  She  was  a  full- 
breasted,  soft-skinned  woman,  though  not  stout. 

"Make  the  cocktails  then,  Manfredi,"  she  said.  "Do  you 
find  this  room  very  cold?"  she  asked  of  Aaron. 

"Not  a  bit  cold,"  he  said. 

"The  stove  goes  all  the  time,"  she  said,  "but  without  much 
effect." 

"You  wear  such  thin  clothes,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  no,  the  stove  should  give  heat  enough.  Do  sit  down. 
Will  you  smoke?  There  are  cigarettes — and  cigars,  if  you 
prefer  them" 

"No,  IVe  got  my  own,  thanks." 

She  took  her  own  cigarette  from  her  gold  case. 

"It  is  a  fine  room,  for  music,  the  big  room,"  said  he. 


264  AARON'S  ROD 

"Yes,  quite.  Would  you  like  to  play  for  us  some  time, 
do  you  think  ?^* 

"Do  you  want  me  to?     I  mean  does  it  interest  you?" 

"What— the  flute?" 

"No — music  altogether — " 

"Music  altogether — !  Well!  I  used  to  love  it.  Now — 
I'm  not  sure.    Manfredi  lives  for  it,  almost." 

"For  that  and  nothing  else?"  asked  Aaron. 

"No,  no!     No,  no!     Other  things  as  well." 

"But  you  don't  like  it  much  any  more?" 

"I  don't  know.    Perhaps  I  don't.    I'm  not  sure." 

"You  don't  look  forward  to  the  Saturday  mornings?"  he 
asked. 

"Perhaps  I  don't — but  for  Manfredi^s  sake,  of  course,  I 
do.  But  for  his  sake  more  than  my  own,  I  admit.  And  I 
think  he  knows  it." 

"A  crowd  of  people  in  one's  house — "  said  Aaron. 

"Yes,  the  people.  But  it's  not  only  that.  It's  the  music 
itself — I  think  I  can't  stand  it  any  more.    I  don't  know.'^ 

"Too  emotional?    Too  much  feeling  for  you?" 

"Yes,  perhaps.  But  no.  What  I  can't  stand  is  chords,  you 
know:  harmonies.  A  number  of  sounds  all  sounding  together. 
It  just  makes  me  ill.    It  makes  me  feel  so  sick." 

"What — do  you  want  discords? — dissonances?" 

"No — they  are  nearly  as  bad.  No,  it's  just  when  any  num- 
ber of  musical  notes,  different  notes,  come  together,  har- 
monies or  discords.  Even  a  single  chord  struck  on  the  piano. 
It  makes  me  feel  sick.  I  just  feel  as  if  I  should  retch.  Isn't 
it  strange?  Of  course,  I  don't  tell  Manfredi.  It  would  be 
too  cruel  to  him.    It  would  cut  his  life  in  two." 

"But  then  why  do  you  have  the  music — the  Saturdays — 
then?" 

"Oh,  I  just  keep  out  of  the  way  as  much  as  possible.  I'm 
sure  you  feel  there  is  something  wrong  with  me,  that  I  take 
it  as  I  do,"  she  added,  as  if  anxious:  but  half  ironical. 

"No — I  was  just  wondering — I  believe  I  feel  something  the 
same  myself.  I  know  orchestra  makes  me  blind  with  hate  or 
I  don't  know  what.    But  I  want  to  throw  bombs." 


FLORENCE  265 

"There  now.  It  does  that  to  me,  tod.  Only  now  it  has 
fairly  got  me  down,  and  I  feel  nothing  but  helpless  nausea. 
You  know,  like  when  you  are  seasick." 

Her  dark-blue,  heavy,  haunted-looking  eyes  were  resting  on 
him  as  if  she  hoped  for  something.  He  watched  her  face 
steadily,  a  curious  intelligence  flickering  on  his  own. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  understand  it.  And  I  know,  at  the 
bottom,  I'm  like  that.  But  I  keep  myself  from  realising, 
don't  you  know?  Else  perhaps,  where  should  I  be?  Because 
I  make  my  life  and  my  living  at  it,  as  well." 

"At  music!  Do  you!  But  how  bad  for  you.  But  per- 
haps the  flute  is  different.  I  have  a  feeling  that  it  is.  I 
can  think  of  one  single  pipe-note — ^yes,  I  can  think  of  it  quite, 
quite  calmly.  And  I  can't  even  think  of  the  piano,  or  of  the 
violin  with  its  tremolo,  or  of  orchestra,  or  of  a  string  quar- 
tette— or  even  a  military  band — I  can't  think  of  it  without  a 
shudder.  I  can  only  bear  drum-and-fife.  Isn't  it  crazy  of 
me — but  from  the  other,  from  what  we  call  music  proper, 
I've  endured  too  much.  But  bring  your  flute  one  day.  Bring 
it,  will  you?  And  let  me  hear  it  quite  alone.  Quite,  quite 
alone.  I  think  it  might  do  me  an  awful  lot  of  good.  I  do, 
really.  I  can  imagine  it."  She  closed  her  eyes  and  her 
strange,  sing-song  lapsing  voice  came  to  an  end.  She  spoke 
almost  like  one  in  a  trance — or  a  sleep-walker. 

"I've  got  it  now  in  my  overcoat  pocket,"  he  said,  "if  you 
like." 

"Have  you?  Yes!"  She  was  never  hurried:  always  slow 
and  resonant,  so  that  the  echoes  of  her  voice  seemed  to  lin- 
ger. "Yes — do  get  it.  Do  get  it.  And  play  in  the  other 
room — quite — quite  without  accompaniment.  Do — and  try 
me." 

"And  you  will  tell  me  what  you  feel?'* 

"Yes." 

Aaron  went  out  to  his  overcoat.  When  he  returned  with 
his  flute,  which  he  was  screwing  together,  Manfredi  had  come 
with  the  tray  and  the  three  cocktails.  The  Marchesa  took 
her  glass. 

"Listen,  Manfredi,"  she  said.    "Mr.  Sisson  is  going  to  play. 


266  AARON'S  ROD 

quite  alone  in  the  sala.  And  I  am  going  to  sit  here  and 
listen." 

"Very  well,"  said  Manfredi.  "Drink  your  cocktail  first. 
Are  you  going  to  play  without  music?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron. 

"I'll  just  put  on  the  lights  for  you." 

"No — leave  it  dark.  Enough  light  will  come  in  from 
here." 

"Sure?"  said  Manfredi. 

"Yes." 

The  little  soldier  was  an  intruder  at  the  moment.  Both 
the  others  felt  it  so.  But  they  bore  him  no  grudge.  They 
knew  it  was  they  who  were  exceptional,  not  he.  Aaron  swal- 
lowed his  drink,  and  looked  towards  the  door. 

"Sit  down,  Manfredi.    Sit  still,''  said  the  Marchesa. 

"Won't  you  let  me  try  some  accompaniment?"  said  the 
soldier. 

"No.  I  shall  just  play  a  little  thing  from  memory,"  said 
Aaron. 

"Sit  down,  dear.  Sit  down,"  said  the  Marchesa  to  her 
husband. 

He  seated  himself  obediently.  The  flash  of  bright  yellow 
on  the  grey  of  his  uniform  seemed  to  make  him  like  a  chaf- 
finch or  a  gnome. 

Aaron  retired  to  the  other  room,  and  waited  awhile,  to  get 
back  the  spell  which  connected  him  with  the  woman,  and 
gave  the  two  of  them  this  strange  isolation,  beyond  the 
bounds  of  life,  as  it  seemed. 

He  caught  it  again.  And  there,  in  the  darkness  of  the  big 
room,  he  put  his  flute  to  his  lips,  and  began  to  play.  It  was 
a  clear,  sharp,  lilted  run-and-fall  of  notes,  not  a  tune  in  any 
sense  of  the  word,  and  yet  a  melody,  a  bright,  quick  sound  of 
pure  animation,  a  bright,  quick,  animate  noise,  running  and 
pausing.  It  was  like  a  bird's  singing,  in  that  it  had  no 
human  emotion  or  passion  or  intention  or  meaning — a  ripple 
and  poise  of  animate  sound.  But  it  was  unlike  a  bird's  sing- 
ing, in  that  the  notes  followed  clear  and  single  one  after  the 
other,  in  their  subtle  gallop.    A  nightmgale  is  rather  like  that 


FLORENCE  267 

— a  wild  sound.  To  read  all  the  human  pathos  into  nightin- 
gales' singing  is  nonsense.  A  wild,  savage,  non-human  lurch 
and  squandor  of  sound,  beautiful,  but  entirely  unsesthetic. 

What  Aaron  was  playing  was  not  of  his  own  invention. 
It  was  a  bit  of  mediaeval  phrasing  written  for  the  pipe  and 
the  viol.  It  made  the  piano  seem  a  ponderous,  nerve-wrack- 
ing steam-roller  of  noise,  and  the  violin,  as  we  know  it,  a 
hateful  wire-drawn  nerve-torturer. 

After  a  little  while,  when  he  entered  the  smaller  room  again, 
the  Marchesa  looked  full  into  his  face. 

"Good!"  she  said.     "Good!" 

And  a  gleam  almost  of  happiness  seemed  to  light  her  up. 
She  seemed  like  one  who  had  been  kept  in  a  horrible  enchanted 
castle — for  years  and  years.  Oh,  a  horrible  enchanted  cas- 
tle, with  wet  walls  of  emotions  and  ponderous  chains  of  feel- 
ings and  a  ghastly  atmosphere  of  must-be.  She  felt  she  had 
seen  through  the  opening  door  a  crack  of  sunshine,  and  thin, 
pure,  light  outside  air,  outside,  beyond  this  dank  and  beastly 
dungeon  of  feelings  and  moral  necessity.  Ugh! — she  shud- 
dered convulsively  at  what  had  been.  She  looked  at  her 
little  husband.  Chains  of  necessity  all  round  him:  a  little 
jailor.  Yet  she  was  fond  of  him.  If  only  he  would  throw 
away  the  castle  keys.  He  was  a  little  gnome.  What  did  he 
clutch  the  castle-keys  so  tight  for? 

Aaron  looked  at  her.  He  knew  that  they  understood  one 
another,  he  and  she.  Without  any  moral  necessity  or  any 
other  necessity.  Outside — they  had  got  outside  the  castle  of 
so-called  human  life.  Outside  the  horrible,  stinking  human 
castle  of  life.    A  bit  of  true,  limpid  freedom.    Just  a  glimpse. 

"Charming!"  said  the  Marchese.  "Truly  charmingi  But 
what  was  it  you  played?" 

Aaron  told  him. 

"But  truly  delightful.  I  say,  won^t  you  play  for  us  one  of 
these  Saturdays?  And  won't  you  let  me  take  the  accompani- 
ment?    I  should  be  charmed,  charmed  if  you  would." 

"All  right,"  said  Aaron. 

"Do  drink  another  cocktail,"  said  his  hostess. 

He  did  so.    And  then  he  rose  to  leave. 


268  AARON'S  ROD 

"Will  you  stay  to  dinner?"  said  the  Marchesa.  "We  have 
two  people  coming — two  Italian  relatives  of  my  husband. 
But—" 

No,  Aaron  declined  to  stay  to  dinner. 

"Then  won't  you  come  on — let  me  see — on  Wednesday? 
Do  come  on  Wednesday.  We  are  alone.  And  do  bring  the 
flute.    Come  at  half-past  six,  as  today,  will  you?    Yes?" 

Aaron  promised — and  then  he  found  himself  in  the  street. 
It  was  half-past  seven.  Instead  of  returning  straight  home, 
he  crossed  the  Ponte  Vecchio  and  walked  straight  into  the 
crowd.  The  night  was  fine  now.  He  had  his  overcoat  over 
his  arm,  and  in  a  sort  of  trance  or  frenzy,  whirled  away  by 
his  evening's  experience,  and  by  the  woman,  he  strode  swiftly 
forward,  hardly  heeding  anything,  but  rushing  blindly  on 
through  all  the  crowd,  carried  away  by  his  own  feelings,  as 
much  as  if  he  had  been  alone,  and  all  these  many  people 
merely  trees. 

Leaving  the  Piazza  Vittorio  Emmanuele  a  gang  of  soldiers 
suddenly  rushed  round  him,  buffeting  him  in  one  direction, 
whilst  another  gang,  swinging  round  the  corner,  threw  him. 
back  helpless  again  into  the  midst  of  the  first  gang.  For 
some  moments  he  struggled  among  the  rude,  brutal  little  mob 
of  grey-green  coarse  uniforms  that  smelt  so  strong  of  sol- 
diers. Then,  irritated,  he  found  himself  free  again,  shaking 
himself  and  passing  on  towards  the  cathedral.  Irritated,  he 
now  put  on  his  overcoat  and  buttoned  it  to  the  throat,  clos- 
ing himself  in,  as  it  were,  from  the  brutal  insolence  of  the 
Sunday  night  mob  of  men.  Before,  he  had  been  walking 
through  them  in  a  rush  of  naked  feeling,  all  exposed  to  their 
tender  mercies.     He  now  gathered  himself  together. 

As  he  was  going  home,  suddenly,  just  as  he  was  passing 
the  Bargello,  he  stopped.  He  stopped,  and  put  his  hand  to 
his  breast  pocket.  His  letter-case  was  gone.  He  had  been 
robbed.  It  was  as  if  lightning  ran  through  him  at  that  mo- 
ment, as  if  a  fluid  electricity  rushed  down  his  limbs,  through 
the  sluice  of  his  knees,  and  out  at  his  feet,  leaving  him  stand- 
ing there  almost  unconscious.  For  a  moment  unconscious 
and  superconscious  he  stood  there.    He  had  been  robbed. 


FLORENCE  269 

They  had  put  their  hand  in  his  breast  and  robbed  him.  If 
they  had  stabbed  him,  it  could  hardly  have  had  a  greater 
effect  on  him. 

And  he  had  known  it.  He  had  known  it.  When  the  sol- 
diers jostled  him  so  evilly  they  robbed  him.  And  he  knew 
it.  He  had  known  it  as  if  it  were  fate.  Even  as  if  it  were 
fated  beforehand. 

Feeling  quite  weak  and  faint,  as  if  he  had  really  been 
struck  by  some  evil  electric  fluid,  he  walked  on.  And  as 
soon  as  he  began  to  walk,  he  began  to  reason.  Perhaps  his 
letter-case  was  in  his  other  coat.  Perhaps  he  had  not  had  it 
with  him  at  all.  Perhaps  he  was  feeling  all  this,  just  for 
nothing.     Perhaps  it  was  all  folly. 

He  hurried  forward.  He  wanted  to  make  sure.  He 
wanted  relief.  It  was  as  if  the  power  of  evil  had  suddenly 
seized  him  and  thrown  him,  and  he  wanted  to  say  it  was  not 
so,  that  he  had  imagined  it  all,  conjured  it  up.  He  did  not 
want  to  admit  the  power  of  evil — particularly  at  that  mo- 
ment. For  surely  a  very  ugly  evil  spirit  had  struck  him, 
in  the  midst  of  that  gang  of  Italian  soldiers.  He  knew  it — 
it  had  pierced  him.     It  had  got  him. 

But  he  wanted  to  say  it  was  not  so.  Reaching  the  house, 
he  hastened  upwards  to  his  far-off,  lonely  room,  through  the 
dark  corridors.  Once  in  his  own  apartment,  he  shut  the  door 
and  switched  on  the  light,  a  sensation  like  fear  at  his  heart. 
Then  he  searched  his  other  pockets.  He  looked  everywhere. 
In  vain. 

In  vain,  truly  enough.  For  he  knew  the  thing  was  stolen. 
He  had  known  it  all  along.  The  soldiers  had  deliberately 
plotted,  had  deliberately  rushed  him  and  taken  his  purse. 
They  must  have  watched  him  previously.  They  must  have 
grinned,  and  jeered  at  him. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair,  to  recover  from  the  shock.  The 
pocket-book  contained  four  hundred  francs,  three  one-pound 
notes,  and  various  letters  and  private  effects.  Well,  these 
were  lost.  But  it  was  not  so  much  the  loss  as  the  assault 
on  his  person  that  caused  him  to  feel  so  stricken.  He  felt 
the  jeering,  gibing  blows  they  had  given  as  they  jostled  him. 


270  AARON'S  ROD 

And  now  he  sat,  weak  in  every  limb,  and  said  to  himself: 
"Yes — and  if  I  hadn't  rushed  along  so  full  of  feeling:  if  I 
hadn't  exposed  myself:  if  I  hadn't  got  worked  up  with  the 
Marchesa,  and  then  rushed  all  kindled  through  the  streets, 
without  reserve,  it  would  never  have  happened.  I  gave 
myself  away:  and  there  was  someone  ready  to  snatch  what 
I  gave.  I  gave  myself  away.  It  is  my  own  fault.  I  should 
have  been  on  my  guard.  I  should  be  always  on  my  guard: 
always,  always.  With  God  and  the  devil  both,  I  should  be 
on  my  guard.  Godly  or  devilish,  I  should  hold  fast  to  my 
reserve  and  keep  on  the  watch.  And  if  I  don't,  I  deserve 
what  I  get." 

But  still  he  sat  in  his  chair  in  his  bedroom,  dazed.  One 
part  of  his  soul  was  saying  emphatically:  It  serves  you  right. 
It  is  nothing  but  right.  It  serves  everybody  right  who  rushes 
enkindled  through  the  street,  and  trusts  implicitly  in  man- 
kind and  in  the  life-spirit,  as  if  mankind  and  the  life-spirit 
were  a  playground  for  enkindled  individuals.  It  serves  you 
right.  You  have  paid  about  twelve  pounds  sterling  for  your 
lesson.  Fool,  you  might  have  known  beforehand,  and  then 
you  needn't  have  paid  at  all.  You  can  ill  afford  twelve 
pounds  sterling,  you  fool.  But  since  paid  you  have,  then 
mind,  mind  the  lesson  is  learned.  Never  again.  Never  ex- 
pose yourself  again.  Never  again  absolute  trust.  It  is  a 
blasphemy  against  life,  is  absolute  trust.  Has  a  wild  crea- 
ture ever  absolute  trust?  It  minds  itself.  Sleeping  or  wak- 
ing it  is  on  its  guard.  And  so  must  you  be,  or  you'll  go 
under.  Sleeping  or  waking,  man  or  woman,  God  or  the  devil, 
keep  your  guard  over  yourself.  Keep  your  guard  over  your- 
self, lest  worse  befall  you.  No  man  is  robbed  unless  he  in- 
cites a  robber.  No  man  is  murdered  unless  he  attracts  a 
murderer.  Then  be  not  robbed:  it  lies  within  your  own 
power.  And  be  not  murdered.  Or  if  you  are,  you  deserve 
it.  Keep  your  guard  over  yourself,  now,  always  and  forever. 
Yes,  against  God  quite  as  hard  as  against  the  devil.  He's 
fully  as  dangerous  to  you.  .  .  . 

Thus  thinking,  not  in  his  mind  but  in  his  soul,  his  active, 
living  soul,  he  gathered  his  equanimity  once  more,  and  ac- 


FLORENCE  lU 

cepted  the  fact.  So  he  rose  and  tidied  himself  for  dinner. 
His  face  was  now  set,  and  still.  His  heart  also  was  still — 
and  fearless.  Because  its  sentinel  was  stationed.  Stationed, 
stationed  for  ever. 

And  Aaron  never  forgot.  After  this,  it  became  essential 
to  him  to  feel  that  the  sentinel  stood  guard  in  his  own  heart. 
He  felt  a  strange  unease  the  moment  he  was  off  his  guard. 
Asleep  or  awake,  in  the  midst  of  the  deepest  passion  or  the 
suddenest  love,  or  in  the  throes  of  greatest  excitement  or  be- 
wilderment, somewhere,  some  corner  of  himself  was  awake  to 
the  fact  that  the  sentinel  of  the  soul  must  not  sleep,  no,  never, 
not  for  one  instant. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE 

Aaron  and  Lilly  sat  in  Argyle's  little  loggia,  high  up  under 
the  eaves  of  the  small  hotel,  a  sort  of  long  attic-terrace  just 
under  the  roof,  where  no  one  would  have  suspected  it.  It  was 
level  with  the  grey  conical  roof  of  the  Baptistery.  Here  sat 
Aaron  and  Lilly  in  the  afternoon,  in  the  last  of  the  lovely 
autumn  sunshine.  Below,  the  square  was  already  cold  in 
shadow,  the  pink  and  white  and  green  Baptistery  rose  lantern- 
shaped  as  from  some  sea-shore,  cool,  cold  and  wan  now  the 
sun  was  gone.  Black  figures,  innumerable  black  figures, 
curious  because  they  were  all  on  end,  up  on  end — ^Aaron  could 
not  say  why  he  expected  them  to  be  horizontal — ^little  black 
figures  upon  end,  like  fishes  that  swim  on  their  tails,  wiggled 
endlessly  across  the  piazza,  little  carriages  on  natural  all- 
fours  rattled  tinily  across,  the  yellow  little  tram-cars,  like  dogs 
slipped  round  the  corner.  The  balcony  was  so  high  up,  that 
the  sound  was  ineffectual.  The  upper  space,  above  the  houses, 
was  nearer  than  the  under-currents  of  the  noisy  town.  Sun- 
light, lovely  full  sunlight,  lingered  warm  and  still  on  the  bal- 
cony. It  caught  the  facade  of  the  cathedral  sideways,  like 
the  tips  of  a  flower,  and  sideways  lit  up  the  stem  of  Giotto's 
tower,  like  a  lily  stem,  or  a  long,  lovely  pale  pink  and  white 
and  green  pistil  of  the  lily  of  the  cathedral.  Florence,  the 
flowery  town.  Firenze — Fiorenze — the  flowery  town:  the  red 
lilies.  The  Fiorentini,  the  flower-souled.  Flowers  with  good 
roots  in  the  mud  and  muck,  as  should  be:  and  fearless  blos- 
soms in  air,  like  the  cathedral  and  the  tower  and  the  David. 

"I  love  it,"  said  Lilly.  "I  love  this  place.  I  love  the 
cathedral  and  the  tower.  I  love  its  pinkness  and  its  paleness. 
The  Gothic  souls  find  fault  with  it,  and  say  it  is  gimcrack 
and  tawdry  and  cheap.    But  I  love  it,  it  is  delicate  and  rosy, 

272 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE      273 

and  the  dark  stripes  are  as  they  should  be,  like  the  tiger 
marks  on  a  pink  lily.  It's  a  lily,  not  a  rose;  a  pinky  white  lily 
with  dark  tigery  marks.  And  heavy,  too,  in  its  own  substance: 
earth-substance,  risen  from  earth  into  the  air:  and  never 
forgetting  the  dark,  black-fierce  earth — I  reckon  here  men  for 
a  moment  were  themselves,  as  a  plant  in  flower  is  for  the 
moment  completely  itself.  Then  it  goes  off.  As  Florence 
has  gone  off.  No  flowers  now.  But  it  has  flowered.  And 
I  don't  see  why  a  race  should  be  like  an  aloe  tree,  flower 
once  and  die.  Why  should  it?  Why  not  flower  again?  Why 
not?" 

"If  it's  going  to,  it  will,"  said  Aaron.  "Our  deciding 
about  it  won't  alter  it." 

"The  decision  is  part  of  the  business." 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  Argyle,  who  put  his  head 
through  one  of  the  windows.  He  had  flecks  of  lather  on  his 
reddened  face. 

"Do  you  think  you're  wise  now,"  he  said,  "to  sit  in  that 
sun?" 

"In  November?"  laughed  Lilly. 

"Always  fear  the  sun  when  there's  an  *r'  in  the  month," 
said  Argyle.  "Always  fear  it  *r'  or  no  *r,'  /  say.  I'm  fright- 
ened of  it.  I've  been  in  the  South,  I  know  what  it  is.  I 
tell  you  I'm  frightened  of  it.  But  if  you  think  you  can  stand 
it— well— " 

"It  won't  last  much  longer,  anyhow,"  said  Lilly. 

"Too  long  for  me,  my  boy.  I'm  a  shady  bird,  in  all  senses 
of  the  word,  in  all  senses  of  the  word. — Now  are  you  com- 
fortable? What?  Have  another  cushion?  A  rug  for  your 
knees?  You're  quite  sure  now?  Well,  wait  just  one  moment 
till  the  waiter  brings  up  a  syphon,  and  you  shall  have  a 
whiskey  and  soda.  Precious — oh,  yes,  very  precious  these 
days — like  drinking  gold.  Thirty-five  lire  a  bottle,  my 
boy!"  Argyle  pulled  a  long  face,  and  made  a  noise  with  his 
lips.  "But  I  had  this  bottle  given  me,  and  luckily  you've 
come  while  there's  a  drop  left.  Very  glad  you  have!  Very 
glad  you  have." 

Here  he  poked  a  little  table  through  the  window,  and  put 


2  74  AARON'S  ROD 

a  bottle  and  two  glasses,  one  a  tooth-glass,  upon  it.  Then 
he  withdrew  again  to  finish  shaving.  The  waiter  presently 
hobbled  up  with  the  syphon  and  third  glass.  Argyle  pushed 
his  head  through  the  window,  that  was  only  a  little  higher  than 
the  balcony.  He  was  soon  neatly  shaved,  and  was  brushing 
his  hair. 

"Go  ahead,  my  boys,  go  ahead  with  that  whiskey!"  he  said. 

"We'll  wait  for  you,"  said  Lilly. 

"No,  no,  don't  think  of  it.  However,  if  you  will,  I  shall  be 
one  minute  only — one  minute  only.  I'll  put  on  the  water  for 
the  tea  now.  Oh,  damned  bad  methylated  spirit  they  sell  now! 
An  six  francs  a  litre!  Six  francs  a  litre!  I  don't  know  what 
I'm  going  to  do,  the  air  I  breathe  costs  money  nowadays- 
Just  one  moment  and  I'll  be  with  you!     Just  one  moment — " 

In  a  very  little  while  he  came  from  the  tiny  attic  bedroom, 
through  the  tiniest  cupboard  of  a  sitting-room  under  the 
eaves,  where  his  books  were,  and  where  he  had  hung  his  old 
red  India  tapestries — or  silk  embroideries — and  he  emerged 
there  up  above  the  world  on  the  loggia. 

"Now  then — siamo  nel  paradiso,  eh?  Paradisal  enough  for 
you,  is  it?" 

"The  devil  looking  over  Lincoln,"  said  Lilly  laughing, 
glancing  up  into  Argyle's  face. 

"The  devil  looking  over  Florence  would  feel  sad,"  said  Ar- 
gyle. "The  place  is  fast  growing  respectable — Oh,  piety 
makes  the  devil  chuckle.  But  respectability,  my  boy,  argues 
a  serious  diminution  of  spunk.  And  when  the  spunk  diminishes 
we-ell — it's  enough  to  make  the  most  sturdy  devil  look  sick. 
What?  No  doubt  about  it,  no  doubt  whatever. — ^There — 1" 
he  had  just  finished  settling  his  tie  and  buttoning  his  waist- 
coat. "How  do  I  look,  eh?  Presentable? — I've  just  had  this 
suit  turned.  Clever  little  tailor  across  the  way  there.  But 
he  charged  me  a  hundred  and  twenty  francs."  Argyle  pulled 
a  face,  and  made  the  little  trumping  noise  with  his  lips. 
"However — not  bad,  is  it? — ^He  had  to  let  in  a  bit  at  the 
back  of  the  waistcoat,  and  a  gusset,  my  boy,  a  gusset  in  the 
trousers  back.  Seems  I've  grown  in  the  arsal  region.  Well, 
well,  might  do  worse. — ^Is  it  all  right?" 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE   275 

Lilly  eyed  the  suit. 

**Very  nice.  Very  nice  indeed.  Such  a  good  cloth!  That 
makes  all  the  difference.'^ 

"Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  all  the  difference!  This  suit  is  eleven 
years  old — eleven  years  old.  But  beautiful  English  cloth — 
before  the  war,  before  the  war!" 

"It  looks  quite  wonderfully  expensive  and  smart  now,"  said 
Lilly. 

"Expensive  and  smart,  eh!  Ha-ha-ha!  Well,  it  cost  me 
a  hundred  and  twenty  francs  to  have  it  turned,  and  I  found 
that  expensive  enough.  Well,  now,  come — "  here  Argyle's 
voice  took  on  a  new  gay  cheer.  "A  whiskey  and  soda,  Lilly? 
Say  when!  Oh,  nonsense,  nonsense!  You're  going  to  have 
double  that.  You're  no  lily  of  the  valley  here,  remember. 
Not  with  me.    Not  likely.    Siamo  net  paradiso,  remember." 

"But  why  should  we  drink  your  whiskey?  Tea  would  do 
for  us  just  as  well." 

"Not  likely!  Not  likely!  When  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
your  company,  my  boy,  we  drink  a  glass  of  something,  unless 
I  am  utterly  stripped.    Say  when,  Aaron." 

"When,"  said  Aaron. 

Argyle  at  last  seated  himself  heavily  in  a  small  chair.  The 
sun  had  left  the  loggia,  but  was  glowing  still  on  Giotto's 
tower  and  the  top  of  the  cathedral  facade,  and  on  the  remoter 
great  red-tiled  dome. 

"Look  at  my  little  red  monthly  rose,"  said  Argyle.  "Won- 
derful little  fellow!  I  wouldn't  have  anything  happen  to  him 
for  the  world.  Oh,  a  bacchic  little  chap.  I  made  Pasquale 
wear  a  wreath  of  them  on  his  hair.  Very  becoming  they  were, 
very. — Oh,  I've  had  a  charming  show  of  flowers.  Wonderful 
creatures  sunflowers  are."  They  got  up  and  put  their  heads 
over  the  balcony,  looking  down  on  the  square  below.  "Oh, 
great  fun,  great  fun. — Yes,  I  had  a  charming  show  of 
flowers,  charming. — Zinnias,  petunias,  ranunculus,  sunflowers, 
white  stocks — oh,  charming.  Look  at  that  bit  of  honey- 
suckle. You  see  the  berries  where  his  flowers  were!  Deli- 
cious scent,  I  assure  you." 

Under  the  little  balcony  wall  Argyle  had  put  square  red- 


276  AARON'S  ROD 

tiled  pots,  all  round,  and  in  these  still  bloomed  a  few  pansies 
and  asters,  whilst  in  a  corner  a  monthly  rose  hung  flowers 
like  round  blood-drops.  Argyle  was  as  tidy  and  scrupulous 
in  his  tiny  rooms  and  his  balcony  as  if  he  were  a  first-rate 
sea-man  on  a  yacht.    Lilly  remarked  on  this. 

"Do  you  see  signs  of  the  old  maid  coming  out  in  me?  Oh, 
I  don't  doubt  it.  I  don't  doubt  it.  We  all  end  that  way. 
Age  makes  old  maids  of  us  all.  And  Tanny  is  all  right,  you 
say?    Bring  her  to  see  me.    Why  didn't  she  come  today?" 

"You  know  you  don't  like  people  unless  you  expect  them." 

"Oh,  but  my  dear  fellow! — You  and  Tanny;  you'd  be  wel- 
come if  you  came  at  my  busiest  moment.  Of  course  you 
would.  I'd  be  glad  to  see  you  if  you  interrupted  me  at  any 
crucial  moment. — I  am  alone  now  till  August.  Then  we  shall 
go  away  together  somewhere.  But  you  and  Tanny!  why, 
there's  the  world,  and  there's  Lilly:  that's  how  I  put  it,  my 
boy." 

"All  right,  Argyle.— Hoflichkeiten." 

"What?  Gar  keine  Hoflichkeiten.  Wahrhaf tiger  Kerl  bin 
ich. — ^When  am  I  going  to  see  Tanny?  When  are  you  coming 
to  dine  with  me?" 

"After  you've  dined  with  us — ^say  the  day  after  tomorrow." 

"Right  you  are.  Delighted — .  Let  me  look  if  that  water's 
boiling."  He  got  up  and  poked  half  himself  inside  the  bed- 
room.   "Not  yet.    Damned  filthy  methylated  spirit  they  sell." 

"Look,"  said  Lilly.     "There's  Del  Torre!" 

"Like  some  sort  of  midge,  in  that  damned  grey-and-yellow 
uniform.  I  can't  stand  it,  I  tell  you.  I  can't  stand  the  sight  of 
any  more  of  these  uniforms.  Like  a  blight  on  the  human 
landscape.  Like  a  blight.  Like  green-flies  on  rose-trees, 
smother-flies.  Europe's  got  the  smother-fly  in  these  infernal 
shoddy  militarists.'* 

"Del  Torre's  coming  out  of  it  as  soon  as  he  can,"  said  Lilly. 

"I  should  think  so,  too." 

"I  like  him  myself — very  much.  Look,  he's  seen  us!  He 
wants  to  come  up,  Argyle." 

"What,  in  that  uniform!  I'll  see  him  in  his  grandmother's 
crinoline  first." 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE      277 

"Don't  be  fanatical,  it's  bad  taste.  Let  him  come  up  a 
minute." 

"Not  for  my  sake.  But  for  youfs,  he  shall,"  Argyle  stood 
at  the  parapet  of  the  balcony  and  waved  his  arm.  "Yes, 
come  up,"  he  said,  "come  up,  you  Httle  mistkafer — what  the 
Americans  call  a  bug.    Come  up  and  be  damned." 

Of  course  Del  Torre  was  too  far  off  to  hear  this  exhorta 
tion.    Lilly  also  waved  to  him — and  watched  him  pass  into 
the  doorway  far  below. 

"I'll  rinse  one  of  these  glasses  for  him,"  said  Argyle. 

The  Marchese's  step  was  heard  on  the  stone  stairs:  then  his 
knock. 

"Come  in!  Come  in!"  cried  Argyle  from  the  bedroom, 
where  he  was  rinsing  the  glass.  The  Marchese  entered,  grin- 
ning with  his  curious,  half  courteous  greeting.  "Go  through — 
go  through,"  cried  Argyle.  "Go  on  to  the  loggia — and  mind 
your  head.  Good  heavens,  mind  your  head  in  that  door- 
way." 

The  Marchese  just  missed  the  top  of  the  doorway  as  he 
climbed  the  abrupt  steps  on  to  the  loggia. — There  he  greeted 
Lilly  and  Aaron  with  hearty   handshakes. 

"Very  glad  to  see  you — ^very  glad,  indeed!"  he  cried,  grin- 
ning with  excited  courtesy  and  pleasure,  and  covering  Lilly's 
hand  with  both  his  own  gloved  hands.  "When  did  you  come 
to  Florence?" 

There  was  a  little  explanation.  Argyle.  shoved  the  last 
chair — it  was  a  luggage  stool — through  the  window. 

"All  I  can  do  for  you  in  the  way  of  a  chair,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  that  is  all  right,"  said  the  Marchese.  "Well,  it  is  very 
nice  up  here — and  very  nice  company.  Of  the  very  best,  the 
very  best  in  Florence." 

"The  highest,  anyhow,"  said  Argyle  grimly,  as  he  entered 
with  the  glass.  "Have  a  whiskey  and  soda,  Del  Torre.  It's 
the  bottom  of  the  bottle,  as  you  see." 

"The  bottom  of  the  bottle!  Then  I  start  with  the  tail-end, 
yes! "  He  stretched  his  blue  eyes  so  that  the  whites  showed  all 
round,  and  grinned  a  wide,  gnome-like  grin. 

"You  made  that  start  long  ago,  my  dear  fellow.    Don't  play 


278  AARON'S  ROD 

the  ingenue  with  me,  you  know  it  won't  work.  Say  when,  my 
man,  say  when!" 

"Yes,  when,'*  said  Del  Torre.  "When  did  I  make  that  start, 
then?" 

"At  some  unmentionably  young  age.  Chickens  such  as  you 
soon  learn  to  cheep." 

"Chickens  such  as  I  soon  learn  to  cheap,"  repeated  Del 
Torre,  pleased  with  the  verbal  play.  "What  is  cheap,  please? 
What  is  to  cheap?" 

"Cheep!  Cheep!"  squeaked  Argyle,  making  a  face  at  the 
little  Italian,  who  was  perched  on  one  strap  of  the  luggage- 
stool.  "It^s  what  chickens  say  when  they're  poking  their  lit- 
tle noses  into  new  adventures — ^naughty  ones." 

"Are  chickens  naughty?  Oh!  I  thought  they  could  only 
be  good!" 

"Featherless   chickens   like  yourself,   my   boy." 

"Oh,  as  for  featherless — then  there  is  no  saying  what  they 
will  do. — "  And  here  the  Marchese  turned  away  from  Argyle 
with  the  inevitable  question  to  Lilly: 

"Well,  and  how  long  will  you  stay  in  Florence?" 

Lilly  did  not  know:  but  he  was  not  leaving  immediately. 

"Good!     Then  you  will  come  and  see  us  at  once.  .  .  ." 

Argyle  rose  once  more,  and  went  to  make  the  tea.  He 
shoved  a  lump  of  cake — or  rather  panetone,  good  currant  loaf 
— through  the  window,  with  a  knife  to  cut  it. 

"Help  yourselves  to  the  panetone,"  he  said.  "Eat  it  up. 
The  tea  is  coming  at  once.  You'll  have  to  drink  it  in  your 
glasses,  there's  only  one  old  cup." 

The  Marchese  cut  the  cake,  and  offered  pieces.  The  two 
men  took  and  ate. 

"So  you  have  already  found  Mr.  Sisson!"  said  Del  Torre 
to  Lilly. 

"Ran  straight  into  him  in  the  Via  Nazionale,"  said  Lilly. 

"Oh,  one  always  runs  into  everybody  in  Florence.  We  are 
all  already  acquainted:  also  with  the  flute.  That  is  a  great 
pleasure." 

"So  I  think. — ^Does  your  wife  like  it,  too?" 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE      279 

"Very  much,  indeed!  She  is  quite  eprise.  I,  too,  shall  have 
to  learn  to  play  it." 

"And  run  the  risk  of  spoiling  the  shape  of  your  mouth — 
like  Alcibiades." 

"Is  there  a  risk?  Yes!  Then  I  shan't  play  it.  My  mouth 
is  too  beautiful. — But  Mr.  Sisson  has  not  spoilt  his  mouth." 

"Not  yet,"  said  Lilly.    "Give  him  time." 

"Is  he  also  afraid — like  Alcibiades?" 

"Are  you,  Aaron?"  said  Lilly. 

"What?" 

"Afraid  of  spoiling  your  beauty  by  screwing  your  mouth  to 
the  flute?" 

"I  look  a  fool,  do  I,  when  I'm  playing?"  said  Aaron. 

"Only  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world,"  said  Lilly.  "The 
way  you  prance  your  head,  you  know,  like  a  horse." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Aaron.     "I've  nothing  to  lose." 

"And  were  you  surprised,  Lilly,  to  find  your  friend  here?" 
asked  Del  Torre. 

"I  ought  to  have  been.    But  I  wasn't  really." 

"Then  you  expected  him?" 

"No.  It  came  naturally,  though. — But  why  did  you  come, 
Aaron?     What  exactly  brought  you?" 

"Accident,"  said  Aaron. 

"Ah,  no!  No!  There  is  no  such  thing  as  accident,'* 
said  the  Italian.  "A  man  is  drawn  by  his  fate,  where  he 
goes." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Argyle,  who  came  now  with  the  tea- 
pot. "A  man  is  drawn — or  driven.  Driven,  I've  found  it. 
Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  what  is  life  but  a  search  for  a  friend?  A 
search  for  a  friend — that  sums  it  up." 

"Or  a  lover,"  said  the  Marchese,  grinning. 

"Same  thing.  Same  thing.  My  hair  is  white — ^but  that  is 
the  sum  of  my  whole  experience.  The  search  for  a  friend." 
There  was  something  at  once  real  and  sentimental  in  Argyle's 
tone. 

"And  never  finding?"  said  Lilly,  laughing. 

"Oh,  what  would  you?    Often  finding.    Often  finding.    And 


28o  AARON'S  ROD 

losing,  of  course. — ^A  life's  history.  Give  me  your  glass. 
Miserable  tea,  but  nobody  has  sent  me  any  from  England — " 

"And  you  will  go  on  till  you  die,  Argyle?"  said  Lilly.  "Al- 
ways seeking  a  friend — and  always  a  new  one?" 

"If  I  lose  the  friend  IVe  got.  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  in  that 
case  I  shall  go  on  seeking.  I  hope  so,  I  assure  you.  Some- 
thing will  be  very  wrong  with  me,  if  ever  I  sit  friendless  and 
make  no  search." 

"But,  Argyle,  there  is  a  time  to  leave  off." 

"To  leave  off  what,  to  leave  off  what?" 

"Having  friends:  or  a  friend,  rather:  or  seeking  to  have 
one." 

"Oh,  tio!  Not  at  all,  my  friend.  Not  at  all!  Only  death 
can  make  an  end  of  that,  my  friend.  Only  death.  And  I 
should  say,  not  even  death.  Not  even  death  ends  a  man's 
search  for  a  friend.  That  is  my  belief.  You  may  hang  me 
for  it,  but  I  shall  never  alter." 

"Nay,"  said  Lilly.  "There  is  a  time  to  love,  and  a  time  to 
leave  off  loving." 

"All  I  can  say  to  that  is  that  my  time  to  leave  off  hasn't 
come  yet,"  said  Argyle,  with  obstinate  feeling. 

"Ah,  yes,  it  has.  It  is  only  a  habit  and  an  idea  you  stick 
to." 

"Indeed,  it  is  no  such  thing.  Indeed,  it  is  no  such  thing.  It 
is  a  profound  desire  and  necessity:  and  what  is  more,  a  be- 
lief." 

"An  obstinate  persistency,  you  mean,"  said  Lilly. 

"Well,  call  it  so  if  it  pleases  you.  It  is  by  no  means  so  to 
me."  There  was  a  brief  pause.  The  sun  had  left  the  cathedral 
dome  and  the  tower,  the  sky  was  full  of  light,  the  square 
swimming  in  shadow. 

"But  can  a  man  live,"  said  the  Marchese,  "without  having 
something  he  lives  for:  something  he  wishes  for,  or  longs 
for,  and  tries  that  he  may  get?" 

"Impossible!  Completely  impossible!"  said  Argyle.  "Man 
is  a  seeker,  and  except  as  such,  he  has  no  significance,  no  im- 
portance." 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE   281 

"He  bores  me  with  his  seeking,"  said  Lilly.  "He  should 
learn  to  possess  himself — to  be  himself — and  keep  still." 

"Ay,  perhaps  so,"  said  Aaron.    "Only — " 

"But  my  dear  boy,  believe  me,  a  man  is  never  himself  save 
in  the  supreme  state  of  love:  or  perhaps  hate,  too,  which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  Never  really  himself. — Apart 
from  this  he  is  a  tram-driver  or  a  money-shoveller  or  an  idea- 
machine.  Only  in  the  state  of  love  is  he  really  a  man,  and 
really  himself.    I  say  so,  because  I  know,"  said  Argyle. 

"Ah,  yes.  That  is  one  side  of  the  truth.  It  is  quite  true, 
also.  But  it  is  just  as  true  to  say,  that  a  man  is  never  less 
himself,  than  in  the  supreme  state  of  love.  Never  less  him- 
self, than  then." 

"Maybe!  Maybe!  But  what  could  be  better?  What  could 
be  better  than  to  lose  oneself  with  someone  you  love,  entirely, 
and  so  find  yourself.  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  that  is  my  creed, 
that  is  my  creed,  and  you  can't  shake  me  in  it.  Never  in  that. 
Never  in  that." 

"Yes,  Argyle,"  said  Lilly.  "I  know  youVe  an  obstinate  love- 
apostle." 

"I  am!  I  am!  And  I  have  certain  standards,  my  boy, 
and  certain  ideals  which  I  never  transgress.  Never  transgress. 
And  never  abandon." 

"All  right,  then,  you  are  an  incurable  love-maker." 

"Pray  God  I  am,"  said  Argyle. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Marchese.  "Perhaps  we  are  all  so.  What 
else  do  you  give?  Would  you  have  us  make  money?  Or  do 
you  give  the  centre  of  your  spirit  to  your  work?  How  is  it 
to  be?" 

"I  don't  vitally  care  either  about  money  or  my  work  or — " 
Lilly  faltered. 

"Or  what,  then?" 

"Or  anything.  I  don't  really  care  about  an;^thing.  Except 
that—" 

"You  don't  care  about  anything?  But  what  is  that  for  a 
life?"  cried  the  Marchese,  with  a  hollow  mockery. 

"What  do  you  care  for?"  asked  Lilly. 


282  AARON'S  ROD 

"Me?  I  care  for  several  things.  I  care  for  my  wife.  I 
care  for  love.  And  I  care  to  be  loved.  And  I  care  for  some 
pleasures.    And  I  care  for  music.    And  I  care  for  Italy." 

"You  are  well  off  for  cares,"  said  Lilly. 

"And  you  seem  to  me  so  very  poor,"  said  Del  Torre. 

"I  should  say  so — if  he  cares  for  nothing,"  interjaculated 
Argyle.  Then  he  clapped  Lilly  on  the  shoulder  with  a  laugh. 
"Ha!  Ha!  Ha! — But  he  only  says  it  to  tease  us,"  he  cried, 
shaking  Lilly's  shoulder.  "He  cares  more  than  we  do  for 
his  own  way  of  loving.  Come  along,  don't  try  and  take  us  in. 
We  are  old  birds,  old  birds,"  said  Argyle.  But  at  that  mo- 
ment he  seemed  a  bit  doddering. 

"A  man  can't  live,"  said  the  Italian,  "without  an  object." 

"Well— and  that  object?"  said  Lilly. 

"Well — it  may  be  many  things.  Mostly  it  is  two  things. — 
love,  and  money.  But  it  may  be  many  things:  ambition,  pa- 
triotism, science,  art — ^many  things.  But  it  is  some  objective. 
Something  outside  the  self.  Perhaps  many  things  outside  the 
self." 

"I  have  had  only  one  objective  all  my  life,"  said  Argyle. 
"And  that  was  love.     For  that  I  have  spent  my  life." 

"And  the  lives  of  a  number  of  other  people,  too,"  said 
Lilly. 

"Admitted.  Oh,  admitted.  It  takes  two  to  make  love: 
unless  you're  a  miserable — " 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Aaron,  turning  to  Lilly,  "that  how- 
ever you  try  to  get  away  from  it,  if  you're  not  after  money, 
and  can't  fit  yourself  into  a  job — ^you've  got  to,  you've  got  to 
try  and  find  something  else — somebody  else — somebody.  You 
can't  really  be  alone." 

"No  matter  how  many  mistakes  you've  made — ^you  can't 
really  be  alone — ?"  asked  Lilly. 

"You  can  be  alone  for  a  minute.  You  can  be  alone  just  in 
that  minute  when  you've  broken  free,  and  you  feel  heart  thank- 
ful to  be  alone,  because  the  other  thing  wasn't  to  be  borne. 
But  you  can't  keep  on  being  alone.  No  matter  how  many 
times  you've  broken  free,  and  feel,  thank  God  to  be  alone 
(nothing  on  earth  is  so  good  as  to  breathe  fresh  air  and  be 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE   283 

alone),  no  matter  how  many  times  youVe  felt  this — it  wears 
off  every  time,  and  you  begin  to  look  again — and  you  begin  to 
roam  round.  And  even  if  you  won't  admit  it  to  yourself,  still 
you  are  seeking — seeking.  Aren't  you?  Aren't  you  yourself 
seeking?" 

"Oh,  that's  another  matter,"  put  in  Argyle.  "Lilly  is  hap- 
pily married  and  on  the  shelf.  With  such  a  fine  woman  as 
Tanny  I  should  think  so — rather!  But  his  is  an  exceptional 
nature,  and  an  exceptional  case.  As  for  me,  I  made  a  hell  of 
my  marriage,  and  I  swear  it  nearly  sent  me  to  hell.  But  I 
didn't  forswear  love,  when  I  forswore  marriage  and  woman. 
Not  by  any  means." 

"Are  you  not  seeking  any  more,  Lilly?"  asked  the  Marchese. 
"Do  you  seek  nothing?" 

"We  married  men  who  haven't  left  our  wives,  are  we  sup- 
posed to  seek  anything?"  said  Lilly.  "Aren't  we  perfectly 
satisfied  and  in  bliss  with  the  wonderful  women  who  honour 
us  as  wives?" 

"Ah,  yes,  yes!"  said  the  Marchese.    "But  now  we  are  not 
speaking  to  the  world.    Now  we  try  to  speak  of  that  which 
we  have  in  our  centre  of  our  hearts." 
"And  what  have  we  there?"  said  Lilly. 
"Well — shall  I  say?    We  have  unrest.    We  have  another 
need.    We  have  something  that  hurts  and  eats  us,  yes,  eats 
us  inside.    Do  I  speak  the  truth?" 
"Yes.     But  what  is  the  something?" 
"I  don't  know.    I  don't  know.    But  it  is  something  in  love, 
I  think.    It  is  love  itself  which  gnaws  us  inside,  like  a  cancer," 
said  the  Italian. 

"But  why  should  it?  Is  that  the  nature  of  love?"  said 
Lilly. 

"I  don't  know.  Truly.  I  don't  know. — But  perhaps  it  is 
in  the  nature  of  love — I  don't  know. — But  I  tell  you.  I  love 
my  wife — she  is  very  dear  to  me.  I  admire  her,  I  trust  her, 
I  believe  her.  She  is  to  me  much  more  than  any  woman,  more 
even  than  my  mother. — And  so,  I  am  very  happy.  I  am 
very  happy,  she  is  very  happy,  in  our  love  and  our  marriage. 
— But  wait.    Nothing  has  changed — the  love  has  not  changed: 


284  AARON'S  ROD 

it  is  the  same. — ^And  yet  we  are  not  happy.  No,  we  are  not 
happy.    I  know  she  is  not  happy,  I  know  I  am  not — " 

"Why  should  you  be?"  said  Lilly. 

"Yes — and  it  is  not  even  happiness,"  said  the  Marchese, 
screwing  up  his  face  in  a  painful  effort  of  confession.  "It  is 
not  even  happiness.  No^  I  do  not  ask  to  be  happy.  Why 
should  I?  It  is  childish — but  there  is  for  both  of  us,  I  know  it, 
something  which  bites  us,  which  eats  us  within,  and  drives  us, 
drives  us,  somewhere,  we  don^t  know  where.  But  it  drives  us, 
and  eats  away  the  life — and  yet  we  love  each  other,  and  we 
must  not  separate — Do  you  know  what  I  mean?  Do  you 
understand  me  at  all  in  what  I  say?    I  speak  what  is  true." 

"Yes,  I  understand.  I'm  in  the  same  dilemma  myself. — 
But  what  I  want  to  hear,  is  why  you  think  it  is  so.  Why  is 
it?" 

"Shall  I  say  what  I  think?  Yes?  And  you  can  tell  me  if 
it  is  foolish  to  you. — Shall  I  tell  you?  Well.  Because  a 
woman,  she  now  first  wants  the  man,  and  he  must  go  to  her 
because  he  is  wanted.  Do  you  understand? — ^You  know — 
supposing  I  go  to  a  woman — supposing  she  is  my  wife — ^and 
I  go  to  her,  yes,  with  my  blood  all  ready,  because  it  is  I  who 
want.  Then  she  puts  me  off.  Then  she  says,  not  now,  not 
now,  I  am  tired,  I  am  not  well.  I  do  not  feel  like  it.  She  puts 
me  off — till  I  am  angry  or  sorry  or  whatever  I  am — but  till 
my  blood  has  gone  down  again,  you  understand,  and  I  don't 
want  her  any  more.  And  then  she  puts  her  arms  round  me, 
and  caresses  me,  and  makes  love  to  me — till  she  rouses  me 
once  more.  So,  and  so  she  rouses  me — and  so  I  come  to  her. 
And  I  love  her,  it  is  very  good,  very  good.  But  it  was  she 
who  began,  it  was  her  initiative,  you  know. — I  do  not  think, 
in  all  my  life,  my  wife  has  loved  me  from  my  initiative,  you 
know.  She  will  yield  to  me — because  I  insist,  or  because  she 
wants  to  be  a  good  submissive  wife  who  loves  me.  So  she 
will  yield  to  me.  But  ah,  what  is  it,  you  know?  What  is  it 
a  woman  who  allows  me,  and  who  has  no  answer?  It  is  some- 
thing worse  than  nothing — ^worse  than  nothing.  And  so  it 
makes  me  very  discontented  and  unbelieving. — If  I  say  to  her, 
she  says  it  is  not  true — not  at  all  true.    Then  she  says,  all 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE   285 

she  wants  is  that  I  should  desire  her,  that  I  should  love  her 
and  desire  her.  But  even  that  is  putting  her  will  first.  And 
if  I  come  to  her  so,  if  I  come  to  her  of  my  own  desire,  then 
she  puts  me  off.  She  puts  me  off,  or  she  only  allows  me  to 
come  to  her.  Even  now  it  is  the  same  after  ten  years,  as  it 
was  at  first.  But  now  I  know,  and  for  many  years  I  did  not 
know — " 

The  little  man  was  intense.  His  face  was  strained,  his  blue 
eyes  so  stretched  that  they  showed  the  whites  all  round.  He 
gazed  into  Lilly's  face. 

"But  does  it  matter?"  said  Lilly  slowly,  "in  which  of  you 
the  desire  initiates?    Isn*t  the  result  the  same?" 

"It  matters.     It  matters — "  cried  the  Marchese. 

"Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  how  much  it  matters — "  interrupted 
Argyle  sagely. 

"Ay!"  said  Aaron. 

The  Marchese  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  them. 

"It  matters!"  he  cried.  "It  matters  life  or  death.  It  used 
to  be,  that  desire  started  in  the  man,  and  the  woman 
answered.  It  used  to  be  so  for  a  long  time  in  Italy.  For 
this  reason  the  women  were  kept  away  from  the  men.  For 
this  reason  our  Catholic  religion  tried  to  keep  the  young  girls 
in  convents,  and  innocent,  before  marriage.  So  that  with  their 
minds  they  should  not  know,  and  should  not  start  this  terrible 
thing,  this  woman's  desire  over  a  man,  beforehand.  This  de- 
sire which  starts  in  a  woman's  head,  when  she  knows,  and 
which  takes  a  man  for  her  use,  for  her  service.  This  is  Eve. 
Ah,  I  hate  Eve.  I  hate  her,  when  she  knows,  and  when  she 
wills.  I  hate  her  when  she  will  make  of  me  that  which  serves 
her  desire. — She  may  love  me,  she  may  be  soft  and  kind  to  me, 
she  may  give  her  life  for  me.  But  why?  Only  because  I  am 
hers.  I  am  that  thing  which  does  her  most  intimate  service. 
She  can  see  no  other  in  me.    And  I  may  be  no  other  to  her — " 

"Then  why  not  let  it  be  so,  and  be  satisfied?"  said  Lilly. 

"Because  I  cannot.  I  cannot.  I  would.  But  I  cannot. 
The  Borghesia — the  citizens — the  bourgeoisie,  they  are  the 
ones  who  can.  Oh,  yes.  The  bourgeoisie,  the  shopkeepers, 
these  serve  their  wives  so,  and  their  wives  love  them.    They 


286  AARON'S  ROD 

are  the  marital  maquereaux — the  husband-maquereau,  you 
know.  Their  wives  are  so  stout  and  happy,  and  they  dote  on 
their  husbands  and  always  betray  them.  So  it  is  with  the 
bourgeoise.  She  loves  her  husband  so  much,  and  is  always 
seeking  to  betray  him.  Or  she  is  a  Madame  Bovary,  seeking 
for  a  scandal.  But  the  bourgeois  husband,  he  goes  on  being 
the  same.  He  is  the  horse,  and  she  the  driver.  And  when  she 
says  gee-up,  you  know — then  he  comes  ready,  like  a  hired 
maquereau.  Only  he  feels  so  good,  like  a  good  little  boy  at 
her  breast.  And  then  there  are  the  nice  little  children.  And  so 
they  keep  the  world  going. — But  for  me — "  he  spat  suddenly 
and  with  frenzy  on  the  floor. 

"You  are  quite  right,  my  boy,"  said  Argyle.  "You  are 
quite  right.  They've  got  the  start  of  us,  the  women:  and  we've 
got  to  canter  when  they  say  gee-up.  I — oh,  I  went  through 
it  all.  But  I  broke  the  shafts  and  smashed  the  matrimonial 
cart,  I  can  tell  you,  and  I  didn't  care  whether  I  smashed  her 
up  along  with  it  or  not.  I  didn't  care  one  single  bit,  I  assure 
you. — And  here  I  am.  And  she  is  dead  and  buried  these 
dozen  years.  Well — ^well!  Life,  you  know,  life.  And  Women 
oh,  they  are  the  very  hottest  hell  once  they  get  the  start  of 
you.  There's  nothing  they  won't  do  to  you,  once  they've  got 
you.  Nothing  they  won't  do  to  you.  Especially  if  they  love 
you.  Then  you  may  as  well  give  up  the  ghost:  or  smash  the 
cart  behind  you,  and  her  in  it.  Otherwise  she  will  just  harry 
you  into  submission,  and  make  a  dog  of  you,  and  cuckold  you 
under  your  nose.  And  you'll  submit.  Oh,  you'll  submit,  and 
go  on  calling  her  my  darling.  Or  else,  if  you  won't  submit, 
she'll  do  for  you.  Your  only  chance  is  to  smash  the  shafts, 
and  the  whole  matrimonial  cart.  Or  she'll  do  for  you.  For 
a  woman  has  an  uncanny,  hellish  strength — she's  a  she-bear 
and  a  wolf,  is  a  woman  when  she's  got  the  start  of  you.  Oh, 
it's  a  terrible  experience,  if  you're  not  a  bourgeois,  and  not 
one  of  the  knuckling-under  money-making  sort." 

"Knuckling-under  sort.  Yes.  That  is  it,"  said  the  Mar- 
chese. 

"But  can't  there  be  a  balancing  of  wills?"  said  Lilly. 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE      287 

*'My  dear  boy,  the  balance  lies  in  that,  that  when  one  goes 
up,  the  other  goes  down.  One  acts,  the  other  takes.  It  is  the 
only  way  in  love — And  the  women  are  nowadays  the  active 
party.  Oh,  yes,  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  about  it.  They  take 
the  initiative,  and  the  man  plays  up.  That^s  how  it  is.  The 
man  just  plays  up. — Nice  manly  proceeding,  what!"  cried 
Argyle. 

"But  why  can't  man  accept  it  as  the  natural  order  of. 
things?"  said  Lilly.    "Science  makes  it  the  natural  order." 

"All  my to  science,"  said  Argyle.    "No  man  with  one 

drop  of  real  spunk  in  him  can  stand  it  long." 

"Yes!  Yes!  Yes!"  cried  the  Italian.  "Most  men  want  it 
so.  Most  men  want  only,  that  a  woman  shall  want  them, 
and  they  shall  then  play  up  to  her  when  she  has  roused  them. 
Most  men  want  only  this:  that  a  woman  shall  choose  one  man 
out,  to  be  her  man,  and  he  shall  worship  her  and  come  up 
when  she  shall  provoke  him.  Otherwise  he  is  to  keep  still. 
And  the  woman,  she  is  quite  sure  of  her  part.  She  must  be 
loved  and  adored,  and  above  all,  obeyed,  particularly  in  her 
sex  desire.  There  she  must  not  be  thwarted,  or  she  becomes  a 
devil.  And  if  she  is  obeyed,  she  becomes  a  misunderstood 
woman  with  nerves,  looking  round  for  the  next  man  whom  she 
can  bring  under.    So  it  is." 

"Well,"  said  Lilly.     "And  then  what?" 

"Nay,"  interrupted  Aaron.  "But  do  you  think  it's  true 
what  he  says?  Have  you  found  it  like  that?  You're  mar- 
ried.   Has  your  experience  been  different,  or  the  same?" 

"What  was  yours?"  asked  Lilly. 

"Mine  was  the  same.  Mine  was  the  same,  if  ever  it  was," 
said  Aaron. 

"And  mine  was  extremely  similar,"  said  Argyle  with  a 
grimace. 

"And  yours,  Lilly?"  asked  the  Marchese  anxiously. 

"Not  very  different,"  said  Lilly. 

"Ah!"  cried  Del  Torre,  jerking  up  erect  as  if  he  had  found 
something. 

"And  what's  your  way  out?"  Aaron  asked  him. 


288  AARON'S  ROD 

"I'm  not  out—so  I  won't  holloa,"  said  Lilly.  "But  Del 
Torre  puts  it  best. — ^What  do  you  say  is  the  way  out,  Del 
Torre?" 

"The  way  out  is  that  it  should  change:  that  the  man  should 
be  the  asker  and  the  woman  the  answerer.    It  must  change." 

"But  it  doesn't.    Prrr!"    Argyle  made  his  trumping  noise. 

"Does  it?"  asked  Lilly  of  the  Marchese. 

"No.    I  think  it  does  not." 

"And  will  it  ever  again?" 

"Perhaps  never." 

"And  then  what?" 

"Then?  Why  then  man  seeks  a  pis-aller.  Then  he  seeks 
something  which  will  give  him  answer,  and  which  will  not  only 
draw  him,  draw  him,  with  a  terrible  sexual  will. — So  he  seeks 
young  girls,  who  know  nothing,  and  so  cannot  force  him. 
He  thinks  he  will  possess  them  while  they  are  young,  and  they 
will  be  soft  and  responding  to  his  wishes. — But  in  this,  too, 
he  is  mistaken.  Because  now  a  baby  of  one  year,  if  it  be  a 
female,  is  like  a  woman  of  forty,  so  is  its  will  made  up,  so  it 
will  force  a  man." 

"And  so  young  girls  are  no  good,  even  as  a  pis-allerJ* 

"No  good — because  they  are  all  modern  women.  Every 
one,  a  modern  woman.    Not  one  who  isn't." 

"Terrible  thing,  the  modern  woman,"  put  in  Argyle. 

"And  then—?" 

"Then  man  seeks  other  forms  of  loves,  always  seeking  the 
loving  response,  you  know,  of  one  gentler  and  tenderer  than 
himself,  who  will  wait  till  the  man  desires,  and  then  will 
answer  with  full  love. — But  it  is  all  pis-aller,  you  know." 

"Not  by  any  means,  my  boy,"  cried  Argyle. 

"And  then  a  man  naturally  loves  his  own  wife,  too,  even 
if  it  is  not  bearable  to  love  her." 

"Or  one  leaves  her,  like  Aaron,"  said  Lilly. 

"And  seeks  another  woman,  so,"  said  the  Marchese. 

"Does  he  seek  another  woman?"  said  Lilly.  "Do  you, 
Aaron?" 

"I  don't  want  to,"  said  Aaron.  "But — I  can't  stand  by 
myself  in  the  middle  of  the  world  and  in  the  middle  of  people, 


HIGH  UP  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  SQUARE   289 

and  know  I  am  quite  by  myself,  and  nowhere  to  go,  and 
nothing  to  hold  on  to.  I  can  for  a  day  or  two — But  then,  it 
becomes  unbearable  as  well.  You  get  frightened.  You  feel 
you  might  go  funny — as  you  would  if  you  stood  on  this  bal- 
cony wall  with  all  the  space  beneath  you." 

"Can^t  one  be  alone — quite  alone?"  said  Lilly. 

"But  no — it  is  absurd.  Like  Saint  Simeon  Stylites  on  a 
pillar.    But  it  is  absurd!"  cried  the  Italian. 

"I  don't  mean  like  Simeon  Stylites.  I  mean  can't  one  live 
with  one's  wife,  and  be  fond  of  her:  and  with  one's  friends, 
and  enjoy  their  company:  and  with  the  world  and  everything, 
pleasantly:  and  yet  know  that  one  is  alone?  Essentially,  at 
the  very  core  of  m.e,  alone.  Eternally  alone.  And  choosing 
to  be  alone.  Not  sentimental  or  lonely.  Alone,  choosing 
to  be  alone,  because  by  one's  own  nature  one  is  alone.  The 
being  with  another  person  is  secondary,"  said  Lilly. 

"One  is  alone,"  said  Argyle,  "in  all  but  love.  In  all  but 
love,  my  dear  fellow.    And  then  I  agree  with  you." 

"No,"  said  Lilly,  "in  love  most  intensely  of  all,  alone." 

"Completely  incomprehensible,"  said  Argyle.  "Amounts 
to  nothing." 

"One  man  is  but  a  part.  How  can  he  be  so  alone?"  said 
the  Marchese. 

"In  so  far  as  he  is  a  single  individual  soul,  he  is  alone — ipso 
facto.  In  so  far  as  I  am  I,  and  only  I  am  I,  and  I  am  only 
I,  in  so  far,  I  am  inevitably  and  eternally  alone,  and  it  is 
my  last  blessedness  to  know  it,  and  to  accept  it,  and  to  live 
with  this  as  the  core  of  my  self-knowledge." 

"My  dear  boy,  you  are  becoming  metaphysical,  and  that  is 
as  bad  as  softening  of  the  brain,"  said  Argyle. 

"All  right,"  said  Lilly. 

"And,"  said  the  Marchese,  "it  may  be  so  by  reason.  But 
in  the  heart — ?  Can  the  heart  ever  beat  quite  alone?  Plop! 
Plop! — Can  the  heart  beat  quite  alone,  alone  in  all  the  atmos- 
phere, all  the  space  of  the  universe?  Plop!  Plop!  Plop! — 
Quite  alone  in  all  the  space?"  A  slow  smile  came  over  the 
Italian's  face.  "It  is  impossible.  It  may  beat  against  the 
heart  of  other  men,  in  anger,  all  in  pressure  against  the  others. 


290  AARON'S  ROD 

It  may  beat  hard,  like  iron,  saying  it  is  independent.  But 
this  is  only  beating  against  the  heart  of  mankind,  not  alone. 
— But  either  with  or  against  the  heart  of  mankind,  or  the 
heart  of  someone,  mother,  wife,  friend,  children — so  must  the 
heart  of  every  man  beat.    It  is  so." 

"It  beats  alone  in  its  own  silence,"  said  Lilly. 

The  Italian  shook  his  head. 

/'We'd  better  be  going  inside,  anyhow,"  said  Argyle.  "Some 
of  you  will  be  taking  cold." 

"Aaron,"  said  Lilly.    "Is  it  true  for  you?" 

"Nearly,"  said  Aaron,  looking  into  the  quiet,  half-amused, 
yet  frightening  eyes  of  the  other  man.    Or  it  has  been." 

"A  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile,"  laughed  Lilly,  rising  and 
picking  up  his  chair  to  take  it  indoors.  And  the  laughter 
of  his  voice  was  so  like  a  simple,  deliberate  amiability,  that 
Aaron's  heart  really  stood  still  for  a  second.  He  knew  that 
Lilly  was  alone — as  far  as  he,  Aaron,  was  concerned.  Lilly 
was  alone — and  out  of  his  isolation  came  his  words,  indifferent 
as  to  whether  they  came  or  not.  And  he  left  his  friends 
utterly  to  their  own  choice.  Utterly  to  their  own  choice. 
Aaron  felt  that  Lilly  was  there,  existing  in  life,  yet  neither 
asking  for  connection  nor  preventing  any  connection.  He  was 
present,  he  was  the  real  centre  of  the  group.  And  yet  he 
asked  nothing  of  them,  and  he  imposed  nothing.  He  left 
each  to  himself,  and  he  himself  remained  just  himself:  neither 
more  nor  less.  And  there  was  a  finality  about  it,  which  was 
at  once  maddening  and  fascinating.  Aaron  felt  angry,  as 
if  he  were  half  insulted  by  the  other  man^s  placing  the  gift 
of  friendship  or  connection  so  quietly  back  in  the  giver's 
hands.  Lilly  would  receive  no  gift  of  friendship  in  equality. 
Neither  would  he  violently  refuse  it.  He  let  it  lie  unmarked. 
And  yet  at  the  same  time  Aaron  knew  that  he  could  depend  on 
the  other  man  for  help,  nay,  almost  for  life  itself — so  long  as 
it  entailed  no  breaking  of  the  intrinsic  isolation  of  Lilly's 
soul.  But  this  condition  was  also  hateful.  And  there  was 
also  a  great  fascination  in  it. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   MARCHESA 

So  Aaron  dined  with  the  Marchesa  and  Manfredi.  He 
was  quite  startled  when  his  hostess  came  in:  she  seemed  like 
somebody  else.  She  seemed  like  a  demon,  her  hair  on  her 
brows,  her  terrible  modern  elegance.  She  wore  a  wonderful 
gown  of  thin  blue  velvet,  of  a  lovely  colour,  with  some  kind 
of  gauzy  gold-threaded  filament  down  the  sides.  It  was 
terribly  modern,  short,  and  showed  her  legs  and  her  shoulders 
and  breast  and  all  her  beautiful  white  arms.  Round  her 
throat  was  a  collar  of  dark-blue  sapphires.  Her  hair  was 
done  low,  almost  to  the  brows,  and  heavy,  like  an  Aubrey 
Beardsley  drawing.  She  was  most  carefully  made  up — yet 
with  that  touch  of  exaggeration,  lips  slightly  too  red,  which 
was  quite  intentional,  and  which  frightened  Aaron.  He  thought 
her  wonderful,  and  sinister.  She  affected  him  with  a  touch 
of  horror.  She  sat  down  opposite  him,  and  her  beautifully 
shapen  legs,  in  frail,  goldish  stockings,  seemed  to  glisten 
metallic  naked,  thrust  from  out  of  the  wonderful,  wonderful 
skin,  like  periwinkle-blue  velvet.  She  had  tapestry  shoes, 
blue  and  gold:  and  almost  one  could  see  her  toes:  metallic 
naked.  The  gold-threaded  gauze  slipped  at  her  side.  Aaron 
could  not  help  watching  the  naked-seeming  arch  of  her  foot. 
It  was  as  if  she  were  dusted  with  dark  gold-dust  upon  her 
marvellous  nudity. 

She  must  have  seen  his  face,  seen  that  he  was  ebloui. 

"You  brought  the  flute?"  she  said,  in  that  toneless,  melan- 
choly, unstriving  voice  of  hers.  Her  voice  alone  was  the  same: 
direct  and  bare  and  quiet. 

"Yes." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  sing  later  on,  if  youll  accompany  me. 
Will  you?" 

291 


292  AARON'S  ROD 

"I  thought  you  hated  accompaniments." 

''Oh,  no — not  just  unison.  I  don't  mean  accompaniment. 
I  mean  unison.  I  don't  know  how  it  will  be.  But  will  you 
try?" 

"Yes,  I'll  try." 

"Manfredi  is  just  bringing  the  cocktails.  Do  you  think 
you'd  prefer  orange  in  yours?" 

"I'll  have  mine  as  you  have  yours." 

"I  don't  take  orange  in  mine.    Won't  you  smoke?" 

The  strange,  naked,  remote-seeming  voice!  And  then  the 
beautiful  firm  limbs  thrust  out  in  that  dress,  and  nakedly 
dusky  as  with  gold-dust.  Her  beautiful  woman's  legs,  slightly 
glistening,  duskily.  His  one  abiding  instinct  was  to  touch 
them,  to  kiss  them. ,  He  had  never  known  a  woman  to  exercise 
such  power  over  him.  It  was  a  bare,  occult  force,  something 
he  could  not  cope  with. 

Manfredi  came  in  with  the  little  tray.  He  was  still  in 
uniform. 

"Hello!"  cried  the  little  Italian.  "Glad  to  see  you— well, 
everything  all  right?  Glad  to  hear  it.  How  is  the  cocktail, 
Nan?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.    "All  right." 

"One  drop  too  much  peach,  eh?" 

"No,  all  right." 

"Ah,"  and  the  little  officer  seated  himself,  stretching  his 
gaitered  legs  as  if  gaily.  He  had  a  curious  smiling  look  on 
his  face,  that  Aaron  thought  also  diabolical — and  almost 
handsome.  Suddenly  the  odd,  laughing,  satanic  beauty  of 
the  little  man  was  visible. 

"Well,  and  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?"  said 
he.    "What  did  you  do  yesterday?" 

"Yesterday?"  said  Aaron.    "I  went  to  the  Uffizi." 

"To  the  Uffizi?     Well!     And  what  did  you  think  of  it?" 

"Very  fine." 

"I  think  it  is.  I  think  it  is.  What  pictures  did  you 
look  at?" 

"I  was  with  Dekker.    We  looked  at  most,  I  believe." 

"And  what  do  you  remember  best?" 


THE  MARCHESA  293 

"I  remember  Botticelli's  Venus  on  the  Shell." 

"Yes!  Yes!—"  said  Manfredi.  "I  like  her.  But  I  like 
others  better.    You  thought  her  a  pretty  woman,  yes?" 

"No — not  particularly  pretty.  But  I  like  her  body.  And 
I  like  the  fresh  air.  I  like  the  fresh  air,  the  summer  sea-air 
all  through  it — through  her  as  well." 

"And  her  face?"  asked  the  Marchesa,  with  a  slow,  ironic 
smile. 

"Yes — she's  a  bit  baby-faced,"  said  Aaron. 

"Trying  to  be  more  innocent  than  her  own  common-sense 
will  let  her,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  Nan,"  said  her  husband.  "I  think 
it  is  just  that  wistfulness  and  innocence  which  makes  her  the 
true  Venus:  the  true  modern  Venus.  She  chooses  not  to  know 
too  much.  And  that  is  her  attraction.  Don't  you  agree, 
Aaron?  Excuse  me,  but  everybody  speaks  of  you  as  Aaron. 
It  seems  to  come,  naturally.  Most  people  speak  of  me  as 
Manfredi,  too,  because  it  is  easier,  perhaps,  than  Del  Torre. 
So  if  you  find  it  easier,  use  it.  Do  you  mind  that  I  call  you 
Aaron?" 

"Not  at  all.    I  hate  Misters,  always." 

"Yes,  so  do  I.    I  like  one  name  only." 

The  little  officer  seemed  very  winning  and  delightful  to 
Aaron  this  evening — and  Aaron  began  to  like  him  extremely. 
But  the  dominating  consciousness  in  the  room  was  the 
woman's. 

"Do  you  agree,  Mr.  Sisson?"  said  the  Marchesa.  "Do  you 
agree  that  the  mock-innocence  and  the  sham-wistfulness  of 
Botticelli's  Venus  are  her  great  charms?" 

"I  don't  think  she  is  at  all  charming,  as  a  person,"  said 
Aaron.  "As  a  particular  woman,  she  makes  no  impression  on 
me  at  all.  But  as  a  picture — and  the  fresh  air,  particularly 
the  fresh  air.  She  doesn't  seem  so  much  a  woman,  you  know, 
as  the  kind  of  out-of-doors  morning-feelings  at  the  sea- 
side." 

"Quite!  A  sort  of  sea-scape  of  a  woman.  With  a  perfectly 
sham  innocence.  Are  you  as  keen  on  innocence  as  Man- 
fredi is?" 


294  AARON'S  ROD 

"Innocence?"  said  Aaron.  "It^s  the  sort  of  thing  I  don*t 
have  much  feeling  about." 

"Ah,  I  know  you,"  laughed  the  soldier  wickedly.  "You 
are  the  sort  of  man  who  wants  to  be  Anthony  to  Cleopatra. 
Ha-ha!" 

Aaron  winced  as  if  struck.  Then  he  too  smiled,  flattered. 
Yet  he  felt  he  had  been  struck!  Did  he  want  to  be  Anthony 
to  Cleopatra?  Without  knowing,  he  was.  watching  the  Mar- 
chesa.  And  she  was  looking  away,  but  knew  he  was  watching 
her.  And  at  last  she  turned  her  eyes  to  his,  with  a  slow,  dark 
smile,  full  of  pain  and  fuller  still  of  knowledge.  A  strange, 
dark,  silent  look  of  knowledge  she  gave  him:  from  so  far 
away,  it  seemed.  And  he  felt  all  the  bonds  that  held  him 
melting  away.  His  eyes  remained  fixed  and  gloomy,  but 
with  his  mouth  he  smiled  back  at  her.  And  he  was  terrified. 
He  knew  he  was  sinking  towards  her — sinking  towards  her. 
And  he  was  terrified.  But  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  also,  he 
knew  there  was  Lilly,  whom  he  might  depend  on.  And  also 
he  wanted  to  sink  towards  her.  The  flesh  and  blood  of  him 
simply  melted  out,  in  desire  towards  her.  Cost  what  may, 
he  must  come  to  her.  And  yet  he  knew  at  the  same  time  that, 
cost  what  may,  he  must  keep  the  power  to  recover  himself 
from  her.    He  must  have  his  cake  and  eat  it. 

And  she  became  Cleopatra  to  him.  "Age  cannot  wither, 
nor  custom  stale — "  To  his  instinctive,  unwilled  fancy,  she 
was  Cleopatra. 

They  went  in  to  dinner,  and  he  sat  on  her  right  hand.  It 
was  a  smallish  table,  with  a  very  few  daisy-flowers:  every- 
thing rather  frail,  and  sparse.  The  food  the  same — nothing 
very  heavy,  all  rather  exquisite.  They  drank  hock.  And 
he  was  aware  of  her  beautiful  arms,  and  her  bosom;  her  low- 
crowded,  thick  hair,  parted  in  the  centre:  the  sapphires  on 
her  throat,  the  heavy  rings  on  her  fingers:  and  the  paint  on 
he^  lips,  the  fard.  Something  deep,  deep  at  the  bottom  of 
him  hovered  upon  her,  cleaved  to  her.  Yet  he  was  as  if 
sightless,  in  a  stupor.  Who  was  she,  what  was  she?  He  had 
lost  all  his  grasp.    Only  he  sat  there,  with  his  face  turned 


THE  MARCHESA  295 

to  hers,  or  to  her,  all  the  time.  And  she  talked  to  him.  But 
she  never  looked  at  him. 

Indeed  she  said  little.  It  was  the  husband  who  talked. 
His  manner  towards  Aaron  was  almost  caressive.  And  Aaron 
liked  it.  The  woman  was  silent  mostly,  and  seemed  remote. 
And  Aaron  felt  his  life  ebb  towards  her.  He  felt  the  marvel- 
lousness,  the  rich  beauty  of  her  arms  and  breast.  And  the 
thought  of  her  gold-dusted  smooth  limbs  beneath  the  table 
made  him  feel  almost  an  idiot. 

The  second  wine  was  a  gold-coloured  Moselle,  very  soft 
and  rich  and  beautiful.  She  drank  this  with  pleasure,  as  one 
who  understands.  And  for  dessert  there  was  a  dish  of  cacchi 
— that  orange-coloured,  pulpy  Japanese  fruit — persimmons. 
Aaron  had  never  eaten  these  before.  Soft,  almost  slimy,  of 
a  wonderful  colour,  and  of  a  flavour  that  had  sunk  from 
harsh  astringency  down  to  that  first  decay-sweetness  which 
is  all  autumn-rich.  The  Marchese  loved  them,  and  scooped 
them  out  with  his  spoon.     But  she  ate  none. 

Aaron  did  not  know  what  they  talked  about,  what  was  said. 
If  someone  had  taken  his  mind  away  altogether,  and  left 
him  with  nothing  but  a  body  and  a  spinal  consciousness,  it 
would  have  been  the  same. 

But  at  coffee  the  talk  turned  to  Manfredi^s  duties.  He 
would  not  be  free  from  the  army  for  some  time  yet.  On  the 
morrow,  for  example,  he  had  to  be  out  and  away  before  it 
was  day.  He  said  he  hated  it,  and  wanted  to  be  a  free  man 
once  more.  But  it  seemed  to  Aaron  he  would  be  a  very  bored 
man,  once  he  was  free.  And  then  they  drifted  on  to  talk  of 
the  palazzo  in  which  was  their  apartment. 

"We've  got  such  a  fine  terrace — ^you  can  see  it  from  your 
house  where  you  are,"  said  Manfredi.    ''Have  you  noticed  it?" 

"No,"  said  Aaron. 

"Near  that  tuft  of  palm-trees.    Don^t  you  know?" 

"No,"  said  Aaron. 

"Let  us  go  out  and  show  it  him,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

Manfredi  fetched  her  a  cloak,  and  they  went  through  vari- 
ous doors,  then  up  some  steps.    The  terrace  was  broad  and 


296  AARON'S  ROD 

open.  It  looked  straight  across  the  river  at  the  opposite 
Lungarno:  and  there  was  the  thin-necked  tower  of  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  and  the  great  dome  of  the  cathedral  in  the  distance, 
in  shadow-bulk  in  the  cold-aired  night  of  stars.  Little  trams 
were  running  brilliant  over  the  fiat  new  bridge  on  the  right. 
And  from  a  garden  just  below  rose  a  tuft  of  palm-trees. 

"You  see,'^  said  the  Marchesa,  coming  and  standing  close 
to  Aaron,  so  that  she  just  touched  him,  "you  can  know  the 
terrace,  just  by  these  palm  tredfe.  And  you  are  in  the  Nardini 
just  across  there,  are  you?    On  the  top  floor,  you  said?" 

"Yes,  the  top  floor — one  of  the  middle  windows,  I  think." 

"One  that  is  always  open  now — and  the  others  are  shut.  I 
have  noticed  it,  not  connecting  it  with  you." 

"Yes,  my  window  is  always  open." 

She  was  leaning  very  slightly  against  him,  as  he  stood. 
And  he  knew,  with  the  same  kind  of  inevitability  with  which 
he  knew  he  would  one  day  die,  that  he  would  be  the  lover 
of  this  woman.    Nay,  that  he  was  her  lover  already. 

"Don't  take  cold,"  said  Manfredi. 

She  turned  at  once  indoors.  Aaron  caught  a  faint  whiff  of 
perfume  from  the  little  orange  trees  in  tubs  round  the  wall. 

"Will  you  get  the  flute?"  she  said  as  they  entered. 

"And  will  you  sing?"  he  answered. 

"Play  first,"  she  said. 

He  did  as  she  wished.  As  the  other  night,  he  went  into  the 
big  music-room  to  play.  And  the  stream  of  sound  came  out 
with  the  quick  wild  imperiousness  of  the  pipe.  It  had  an 
immediate  effect  on  her.  She  seemed  to  relax  the  peculiar, 
drug-like  tension  which  was  upon  her  at  all  ordinary  times. 
She  seemed  to  go  still,  and  yielding.  Her  red  mouth  looked 
as  if  it  might  moan  with  relief.  She  sat  with  her  chin  dropped 
on  her  breast,  listening.  And  she  did  not  move.  But  she 
sat  softly,  breathing  rather  quick,  like  one  who  has  been  hurt, 
and  is  soothed.  A  certain  womanly  naturalness  seemed  to 
soften  her. 

And  the  music  of  the  flute  came  quick,  rather  brilliant  like 
a  call-note,  or  like  a  long  quick  message,  half  command.  To 
her  it  was  like  a  pure  male  voice — as  a  blackbird's  when  he 


THE  MARCHESA  297 

calls:  a  pure  male  voice,  not  only  calling,  but  telling  her  some- 
thing, telling  her  something,  and  soothing  her  soul  to  sleep. 
It  was  like  the  fire-music  putting  Brunnhilde  to  sleep. 
But  the  pipe  did  not  flicker  and  sink.  It  seemed  to  cause  a 
natural  relaxation  in  her  soul,  a  peace.  Perhaps  it  was  more 
like  waking  to  a  sweet,  morning  awakening,  after  a  night  of 
tormented,  painful  tense  sleep.    Perhaps  more  like  that. 

When  Aaron  came  in,  she  looked  at  him  with  a  gentle,  fresh 
smile  that  seemed  to  make  the  fard  on  her  face  look  like  a 
curious  tiredness,  which  now  she  might  recover  from.  And 
as  the  last  time,  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  identify  this  man 
with  the  voice  of  the  flute.  It  was  rather  difficult.  Except 
that,  perhaps,  between  his  brows  was  something  of  a  doubt, 
and  in  his  bearing  an  aloofness  that  made  her  dread  he  might 
go  away  and  not  come  back.  She  could  see  it  in  him,  that 
he  might  go  away  and  not  come  back. 

She  said  nothing  to  him,  only  just  smiled.  And  the  look 
of  knowledge  in  her  eyes  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to  be  con- 
tained in  another  look:  a  look  of  faith,  and  at  last  happiness. 
Aaron ^s  heart  stood  still.  No,  in  her  moment's  mood  of  faith 
and  at  last  peace,  life-trust,  he  was  perhaps  more  terrified 
of  her  than  in  her  previous  sinister  elegance.  His  spirit 
started  and  shrank.    What  was  she  going  to  ask  of  him? 

"I  am  so  anxious  that  you  should  come  to  play  one  Sat- 
urday morning,"  said  Manfredi.  "With  an  accompaniment, 
you  know.  I  should  like  so  much  to  hear  you  with  piano 
accompaniment." 

"Very  well,"  said  Aaron. 

"Will  you  really  come?  And  will  you  practise  with  me, 
so  that  I  can  accompany  you?"  said  Manfredi  eagerly. 

"Yes.    I  will,"  said  Aaron. 

"Oh,  good!  Oh,  good!  Look  here,  come  in  on  Friday 
morning  and  let  us  both  look  through  the  music." 

"If  Mr.  Sisson  plays  for  the  public,"  said  the  Marchesa, 
"he  must  not  do  it  for  charity.  He  must  have  the  proper 
fee." 

"No,  I  don^t  want  it,"  said  Aaron. 

"But  you  must  earn  money,  mustn't  you?"  said  she. 


298  AARON'S  ROD 

"I  must,"  said  Aaron.    "But  I  can  do  it  somewhere  else." 
"No.    If  you  play  for  the  public,  you  must  have  your  earn- 
ings.   When  you  play  for  me,  it  is  different." 

"Of  course,"  said  Manfredi.     "Every  man  must  have  his 

wage.    I  have  mine  from  the  Italian  government " 

After  a  while,  Aaron  asked  the  Marchesa  if  she  would  sing. 
"Shall  I?"  she  said. 
"Yes,  do." 

"Then  I  will  sing  alone  first,  to  let  you  see  what  you  think 
of  it — I  shall  be  like  Trilby — I  won^t  say  like  Yvette  Guilbert, 
because  I  daren't.  So  I  will  be  like  Trilby,  and  sing  a  little 
French  song.  Though  not  Malbrouck,  and  without  a  Svengali 
to  keep  me  in  tune." 

She  went  near  the  door,  and  stood  with  her  hands  by  her 
side.  There  was  something  wistful,  almost  pathetic  now,  in 
her  elegance. 

"Derriere  chez  mon  pere 
Vole  vole  mon  coeur,  vole! 
Derriere  chez  mon  pere 
II  y  a  un  pommier  doux. 
Tout   doux,   et   iou 
Et  iou,   tout   doux. 
II  y  a  un  pommier  doux. 

Trois  belles  princesses 

Vole  vole  mon  coeur,  vole  I 
Trois  belles  princesses 
Sont  assis  dessous. 

Tout   doux,   et  iou 

Et   iou,   tout   doux. 

Sont  assis  dessous." 

She  had  a  beautiful,  strong,  sweet  voice.  But  it  was  falter- 
ing, stumbling  and  sometimes  it  seemed  to  drop  almost  to 
speech.  After  three  verses  she  faltered  to  an  end,  bitterly 
chagrined. 

"No,"  she  said.  "It^s  no  good.  I  can't  sing."  And  she 
dropped  in  her  chair. 

"A  lovely  little  tune,"  said  Aaron.  "Haven't  you  got  the 
music  ?'^ 


THE  MARCHESA  299 

She  rose,  not  answering,  and  found  him  a  little  book. 

*'What  do  the  words  mean?"  he  asked  her. 

She  told  him.    And  then  he  took  his  flute. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  play  it,  do  you?"  he  said. 

So  he  played  the  tune.  It  was  so  simple.  And  he  seemed 
to  catch  the  lilt  and  the  timbre  of  her  voice. 

"Come  and  sing  it  while  I  play — "  he  said. 

"I  can't  sing,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  rather  bitterly. 

"But  let  us  try,"  said  he,  disappointed. 

"I  know  I  can't,"  she  said.    But  she  rose. 

He  remained  sitting  at  the  little  table,  the  book  propped 
up  under  the  reading  lamp.  She  stood  at  a  little  distance, 
unhappy. 

"I've  always  been  like  that,"  she  said.  "I  could  never 
sing  music,  unless  I  had  a  thing  drilled  into  me,  and  then  it 
wasn't  singing  any  more." 

But  Aaron  wasn't  heeding.  His  flute  was  at  his  mouth, 
he  was  watching  her.  He  sounded  the  note,  but  she  did  not 
begin.  She  was  twisting  her  handkerchief.  So  he  played  the 
melody  alone.  At  the  end  of  the  verse,  he  looked  up  at  her 
again,  and  a  half  mocking  smile  played  in  his  eyes.  Again 
he  sounded  the  note,  a  challenge.  And  this  time,  as  at  his 
bidding,  she  began  to  sing.  The  flute  instantly  swung  with 
a  lovely  soft  firmness  into  the  song,  and  she  wavered  only 
for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  her  soul  and  her  voice  got  free, 
and  she  sang — she  sang  as  she  wanted  to  sing,  as  she  had 
always  wanted  to  sing,  without  that  awful  scotch,  that  impedi- 
ment inside  her  own  soul,  which  prevented  her. 

She  sang  free,  with  the  flute  gliding  along  with  her.  And 
oh,  how  beautiful  it  was  for  her!  How  beautiful  it  was  to  sing 
the  little  song  in  the  sweetness  of  her  own  spirit.  How  sweet 
it  was  to  move  pure  and  unhampered  at  last  in  the  music! 
The  lovely  ease  and  lilt  of  her  own  soul  in  its  motion  through 
the  music!  She  wasn't  aware  of  the  flute.  She  didn't  know 
there  was  anything  except  her  own  pure  lovely  song-drift. 
Her  soul  seemed  to  breathe  as  a  butterfly  breathes,  as  it  rests 
on  a  leaf  and  slowly  breathes  its  wings.  For  the  first  timel 
For  the  first  time  her  soul  drew  its  own  deep  breath.    All  her 


300  AARON'S  ROD 

life,  the  breath  had  caught  half-way.  And  now  she  breathed 
full,  deep,  to  the  deepest  extent  of  her  being. 

And  oh,  it  was  so  wonderful,  she  was  dazed.  The  song 
ended,  she  stood  with  a  dazed,  happy  face,  like  one  just  com- 
ing awake.  And  the  fard  on  her  face  seemed  like  the  old 
night-crust,  the  bad  sleep.  New  and  luminous  she  looked  out. 
And  she  looked  at  Aaron  with  a  proud  smile. 

"Bravo,  Nan!  That  was  what  you  wanted,"  said  her  hus- 
band. 

"It  was,  wasn't  it?"  she  said,  turning  a  wondering,  glowing 
face  to  him. 

His  face  looked  strange  and  withered  and  gnome-like,  at 
the  moment. 

She  went  and  sat  in  her  chair,  quite  silent,  as  if  in  a  trance. 
The  two  men  also  sat  quite  still.  And  in  the  silence  a  little 
drama  played  itself  between  the  three,  of  which  they  knew 
definitely  nothing.  But  Manfredi  knew  that  Aaron  had  done 
what  he  himself  never  could  do,  for  this  woman.  And  yet 
the  woman  was  his  own  woman,  not  Aaron's.  And  so,  he  was 
displaced.  Aaron,  sitting  there,  glowed  with  a  sort  of  tri- 
umph. He  had  performed  a  little  miracle,  and  felt  himself 
a  little  wonder-worker,  to  whom  reverence  was  due.  And  as 
in  a  dream  the  woman  sat,  feeling  what  a  joy  it  was  to  float 
and  move  like  a  swan  in  the  high  air,  flying  upon  the  wings 
of  her  own  spirit.  She  was  as  a  swan  which  never  before 
could  get  its  wings  quite  open,  and  so  which  never  could  get 
up  into  the  open,  where  alone  it  can  sing.  For  swans,  and 
storks  make  their  music  only  when  they  are  high,  high  up  in 
the  air.  Then  they  can  give  sound  to  their  strange  spirits. 
And  so,  she. 

Aaron  and  Manfredi  kept  their  faces  averted  from  one 
another  and  hardly  spoke  to  one  another.  It  was  as  if  two 
invisible  hands  pushed  their  faces  apart,  away,  averted.  And 
Aaron's  face  glimmered  with  a  little  triumph,  and  a  little 
grimace  of  obstinacy.  And  the  Italian's  face  looked  old, 
rather  monkey-like,  and  of  a  deep,  almost  stone-bare  bitter- 
ness. The  woman  looked  wondering  from  one  man  to  the 
other — wondering.     The  glimmer  of   the  open   flower,   the 


THE  MARCHESA  301 

wonder-look,  still  lasted.  And  Aaron  said  in  his  heart,  what 
a  goodly  woman,  what  a  woman  to  taste  and  enjoy.  Ah,  what 
a  woman  to  enjoy!  And  was  it  not  his  privilege?  Had  he 
not  gained  it? 

His  manhood,  or  rather  his  maleness,  rose  powerfully  in 
him,  in  a  sort  of  mastery.  He  felt  his  own  power,  he  felt 
suddenly  his  own  virile  title  to  strength  and  reward.  Sud- 
denly, and  newly  flushed  with  his  own  male  super-power,  he 
was  going  to  have  his  reward.  The  woman  was  his  reward. 
So  it  was,  in  him.  And  he  cast  it  over  in  his  mind.  He 
wanted  her — ^ha,  didn^t  he!  But  the  husband  sat  there,  like 
a  soap-stone  Chinese  monkey,  greyish-green.  So,  it  would 
have  to  be  another  time. 

He  rose,  therefore,  and  took  his  leave. 

"But  you  11  let  us  do  that  again,  won't  you?"  said  she. 

"When  you  tell  me,  I'll  come,"  said  he. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  soon,"  said  she. 

So  he  left,  and  went  home  to  his  own  place,  and  there  to 
his  own  remote  room.  As  he  laid  his  flute  on  the  table  he 
looked  at  it  and  smiled.  He  remembered  that  Lilly  had 
called  it  Aaron's  Rod. 

"So  you  blossom,  do  you? — ^and  thorn  as  well,"  said  he. 

For  such  a  long  time  he  had  been  gripped  inside  himself, 
and  withheld.  For  such  a  long  time  it  had  been  hard  and 
unyielding,  so  hard  and  unyielding.  He  had  wanted  nothing, 
his  desire  had  kept  itself  back,  fast  back.  For  such  a  long 
time  his  desire  for  woman  had  withheld  itself,  hard  and 
resistant.  All  his  deep,  desirous  blood  had  been  locked,  he 
had  wanted  nobody,  and  nothing.  And  it  had  been  hard  to 
live,  so.  Without  desire,  without  any  movement  of  passionate 
love,  only  gripped  back  in  recoil!  That  was  an  experience 
to  endure. 

And  now  came  his  desire  back.  But  strong,  fierce  as  iron. 
Like  the  strength  of  an  eagle  with  the  lightning  in  its  talons. 
Something  to  glory  in,  something  overweening,  the  powerful 
male  passion,  arrogant,  royal,  Jove's  thunderbolt.  Aaron's  black 
rod  of  power,  blossoming  again  with  red  Florentine  liUes  and 
fierce  thorns.    He  moved  about  in  the  splendour  of  his  own 


302  AARON'S  ROD 

male  lightning,  invested  in  the  thunder  of  the  male  passion- 
power.  He  had  got  it  back,  the  male  godliness,  the  male 
godhead. 

So  he  slept,  and  dreamed  violent  dreams  of  strange,  black 
strife,  something  like  the  street-riot  in  Milan,  but  more  terri- 
ble. In  the  morning,  however,  he  cared  nothing  about  his 
dreams.  As  soon  as  it  was  really  light,  he  rose,  and  opened 
his  window  wide.  It  was  a  grey,  slow  morning.  But  he  saw 
neither  the  morning  nor  the  river  nor  the  woman  walking  on 
the  gravel  river-bed  with  her  goose  nor  the  green  hill  up  to 
San  Miniato.  He  watched  the  tuft  of  palm-trees,  and  the 
terrace  beside  it.  He  could  just  distinguish  the  terrace  clearly, 
among  the  green  of  foliage.  So  he  stood  at  his  window  for  a 
full  hour,  and  did  not  move.  Motionless,  planted,  he  stood 
and  watched  that  terrace  across  above  the  Arno.  But  like 
a  statue. 

After  an  hour  or  so,  he  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  nine 
o'clock.  So  he  rang  for  his  coffee,  and  meanwhile  still  stood 
watching  the  terrace  on  the  hill.  He  felt  his  turn  had  come. 
The  phoenix  had  risen  in  fire  again,  out  of  the  ashes. 

Therefore  at  ten  o'clock  he  went  over  the  bridge.  He  wrote 
on  the  back  of  his  card  a  request,  would  she  please  let  him 
have  the  little  book  of  songs,  that  he  might  practise  them 
over.  The  manservant  went,  and  came  back  with  the  request 
that  Aaron  should  wait.  So  Aaron  entered,  while  the  man 
took  his  hat. 

The  manservant  spoke  only  French  and  Spanish,  no  Eng* 
lish.  He  was  a  Spaniard,  with  greyish  hair  and  stooping 
shoulders,  and  dark,  mute-seeming  eyes.  He  spoke  as  little 
as  possible.    The  Marchesa  had  inherited  him  from  her  father. 

Aaron  sat  in  the  little  sitting-room  and  waited.  After  a 
rather  long  time  the  Marchesa  came  in — wearing  a  white, 
thin  blouse  and  a  blue  skirt.  She  was  hardly  made  up  at  all. 
She  had  an  odd  pleased,  yet  brooding  look  on  her  face  as  she 
gave  Aaron  her  hand.  Something  brooded  between  her  brows. 
And  her  voice  was  strange,  with  a  strange,  secret  undertone, 
that  he  could  not  understand.    He  looked  up  at  her.    And 


THE  MARCHESA  303 

his  face  was  bright,  and  his  knees,  as  he  sat,  were  Hke  the 
knees  of  the  gods. 

"You  wanted  the  book  of  chansons?^'  she  said. 

"I  wanted  to  learn  your  tunes,"  he  replied. 

"Yes.  Look — here  it  is!"  And  she  brought  him  the  little 
yellow  book.  It  was  just  a  hand-book,  with  melody  and 
words  only,  no  accompaniment.  So  she  stood  offering  him  the 
book,  but  waiting  as  if  for  something  else,  and  standing  as 
if  with  another  meaning. 

He  opened  the  leaves  at  random. 

"But  I  ought  to  know  which  ones  you  sing,"  said  he,  rising 
and  standing  by  her  side  with  the  open  book. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  over  his  arm.  He  turned  the  pages 
one  by  one.  "Trots  jeunes  tambours,"  said  she.  "Yes,  that 
.  .  .  Yes,  En  passant  par  la  Lorraine.  .  .  .  Aupres  de  ma 
blonde.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  like  that  one  so  much — "  He  stood  and 
went  over  the  tune  in  his  mind. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  play  it?"  he  said. 

"Very  much,"  said  she. 

So  he  got  his  flute,  propped  up  the  book  against  a  vase,  and 
played  the  tune,  whilst  she  hummed  it  fragmentarily.  But 
as  he  played,  he  felt  that  he  did  not  cast  the  spell  over  her. 
There  was  no  connection.  She  was  in  some  mysterious  way 
withstanding  him.  She  was  withstanding  him,  and  his  male 
super-power,  and  his  thunderbolt  desire.  She  was,  in  some 
indescribable  way,  throwing  cold  water  over  his  phoenix  newly 
risen  from  the  ashes  of  its  nest  in  flames. 

He  realised  that  she  did  not  want  him  to  play.  She  did 
not  want  him  to  look  at  the  songs.  So  he  put  the  book  away, 
and  turned  round,  rather  baffled,  not  quite  sure  what  was  hap- 
pening, yet  feeling  she  was  withstanding  him.  He  glanced 
at  her  face:  it  was  inscrutable:  it  was  her  Cleopatra  face  once 
more,  yet  with  something  new  and  warm  in  it.  He  could 
not  understand  it.  What  was  it  in  her  face  that  puzzled  him? 
Almost  angered  him?  But  she  could  not  rob  him  of  his  male 
power,  she  could  not  divest  him  of  his  concentrated  force. 

"Won't  you  take  off  your  coat?"  she  said,  looking  at  him 


304  AARON'S  ROD 

with  strange,  large  dark  eyes.  A  strange  woman,  he  could 
not  understand  her.  Yet,  as  he  sat  down  again,  having  re- 
moved his  overcoat,  he  felt  her  looking  at  his  limbs,  his  physi- 
cal body.  And  this  went  against  him,  he  did  not  want  it. 
Yet  quite  fixed  in  him  too  was  the  desire  for  her,  her  beautiful 
white  arms,  her  whole  soft  white  body.  And  such  desire  he 
would  not  contradict  nor  allow  to  be  contradicted.  It  was 
his  will  also.  Her  whole  soft  white  body — to  possess  it  in  its 
entirety,  its  fulness. 

"What  have  you  to  do  this  morning?"  she  asked  him. 

"Nothing,"  he  said.  "Have  you?"  He  lifted  his  head  and 
looked  at  her. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  said  she. 

And  then  they  sat  in  silence,  he  with  his  head  dropped. 
Then  again  he  looked  at  her. 

"Shall  we  be  lovers?"  he  said. 

She  sat  with  her  face  averted,  and  did  not  answer.  His 
heart  struck  heavily,  but  he  did  not  relax. 

"Shall  we  be  lovers?"  came  his  voice  once  more,  with  the 
faintest  touch  of  irony. 

Her  face  gradually  grew  dusky.  And  he  wondered  very 
much  to  see  it. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  still  not  looking  at  him.     "If  you  wish." 

"I  do  wish,"  he  said.  And  all  the  time  he  sat  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her  face,  and  she  sat  with  her  face  averted. 

"Now?"  he  said.    "And  where?" 

Again  she  was  silent  for  some  moments,  as  if  struggling 
with  herself.  Then  she  looked  at  him — a  long,  strange,  dark 
look,  incomprehensible,  and  which  he  did  not  like. 

"You  don't  want  emotions?  You  don't  want  me  to  say 
things,  do  you?"  he  said. 

A  faint  ironic  smile  came  on  her  face. 

"I  know  what  all  that  is  worth,"  she  said,  with  curious 
calm  equanimity.    "No,  I  want  none  of  that." 

"Then—?" 

But  now  she  sat  gazing  on  him  with  wide,  heavy,  incompre- 
hensible eyes.    It  annoyed  him. 


THE  MARCHESA  305 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  in  me?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile, 
looking  steadily  back  again. 

And  now  she  turned  aside  her  face  once  more,  and  once 
more  the  dusky  colour  came  in  her  cheek.    He  waited. 

''Shall  I  go  away?"  he  said  at  length. 

"Would  you  rather?"  she  said,  keeping  her  face  averted. 

"No,"  he  said. 

Then  again  she  was  silent. 

"Where  shall  I  come  to  you?"  he  said. 

She  paused  a  moment  still,  then  answered: 

"I'll  go  to  my  room." 

"I  don't  know  which  it  is,"  he  said. 

"Ill  show  it  you,"  she  said. 

"And  then  I  shall  come  to  you  in  ten  minutes.  In  ten  min- 
utes," he  reiterated. 

So  she  rose,  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  little  salon.  He 
walked  with  her  to  the  door  of  her  room,  bowed  his  head  as 
she  looked  at  him,  holding  the  door  handle;  and  then  he 
turned  and  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  glancing  at  his 
watch. 

In  the  drawing-room  he  stood  quite  still,  with  his  feet  apart, 
and  waited.  He  stood  with  his  hands  behind  him,  and  his 
feet  apart,  quite  motionless,  planted  and  firm.  So  the  minutes 
went  by  unheeded.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  The  ten  minutes 
were  just  up.  He  had  heard  footsteps  and  doors.  So  he 
decided  to  give  her  another  five  minutes.  He  wished  to  be 
quite  sure  that  she  had  had  her  own  time  for  her  own  move- 
ments. 

Then  at  the  end  of  the  five  minutes  he  went  straight  to  her 
room,  entered,  and  locked  the  door  behind  him.  She  was 
lying  in  bed,  with  her  back  to  him. 

He  found  her  strange,  not  as  he  had  imagined  her.  Not 
powerful,  as  he  had  imagined  her.  Strange,  in  his  arms  she 
seemed  almost  small  and  childish,  whilst  in  daily  life  she 
looked  a  full,  womanly  woman.  Strange,  the  naked  way  she 
clung  to  him  I  Almost  like  a  sister,  a  younger  sister!  Or  like 
a  child!    It  filled  him  with  a  curious  wonder,  almost  a  bewil- 


306  AARON'S  ROD 

derment.  In  the  dark  sightlessness  of  passion,  she  seemed 
almost  like  a  clinging  chlid  in  his  arms.  And  yet  like  a  child 
who  in  some  deep  and  essential  way  mocked  him.  In  some 
strange  and  incomprehensible  way,  as  a  girl-child  blindly  ob- 
stinate in  her  deepest  nature,  she  was  against  him.  He  felt  she 
was  not  his  woman.  Through  him  went  the  feeling,  "This  is 
not  my  woman." 

When,  after  a  long  sleep,  he  awoke  and  came  fully  to  himself, 
with  that  click  of  awakeness  which  is  the  end,  the  first  shades 
were  closing  on  the  afternoon.  He  got  up  and  reached  for  his 
watch. 

''Quarter  past  four,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  stretched  wide  with  surprise  as  she  looked  at  him. 
But  she  said  nothing.  The  same  strange  and  wide,  perhaps 
insatiable  child-like  curiosity  was  in  her  eyes  as  she  watched 
him.  He  dressed  very  quickly.  And  her  eyes  were  wide,  and 
she  said  no  single  word. 

But  when  he  was  dressed,  and  bent  over  her  to  say  good- 
bye, she  put  her  arms  round  him,  that  seemed  such  frail  and 
childish  arms  now,  yet  withal  so  deadly  in  power.  Her  soft 
arms  round  his  neck,  her  tangle  of  hair  over  his  face.  And 
yet,  even  as  he  kissed  her,  he  felt  her  deadly.  He  wanted 
to  be  gone.  He  wanted  to  get  out  of  her  arms  and  her  cling- 
ing and  her  tangle  of  hair  and  her  curiosity  and  her  strange 
and  hateful  power. 

"You'll  come  again.  We'll  be  like  this  again?"  she  whis- 
pered. 

And  it  was  hard  for  him  to  realise  that  this  was  that  other 
woman,  who  had  sat  so  silently  on  the  sofa,  so  darkly  and 
reservedly,  at  the  tea  at  Algy's. 

"Yes!  I  will!  Goodbye  now!"  And  he  kissed  her,  and 
walked  straight  out  of  the  room.  Quickly  he  took  his  coat 
and  his  hat,  quickly,  and  left  the  house.  In  his  nostrils  was 
still  the  scent  with  which  the  bed  linen  was  faintly  scented — 
he  did  not  know  what  it  was.  But  now  he  wiped  his  face  and 
his  mouth,  to  wipe  it  away. 

He  had  eaten  nothing  since  coffee  that  morning,  and  was 
hungry,  faint-feeling.    And  his  face,  and  his  mind,  felt  with- 


THE  MARCHESA  307 

ered.  Curiously  he  felt  blasted — as  if  blighted  by  some  elec- 
tricity. And  he  knew,  he  knew  quite  well  he  was  only  in 
possession  of  a  tithe  of  his  natural  faculties.  And  in  his  male 
spirit  he  felt  himself  hating  her:  hating  her  deeply,  damnably. 
But  he  said  to  himself:  "No,  I  won't  hate  her.  I  won't  hate 
her." 

So  he  went  on,  over  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  where  the  jeweller's 
windows  on  the  bridge  were  already  blazing  with  light,  on  into 
the  town.  He  wanted  to  eat  something,  so  he  decided  to  go 
to  a  shop  he  knew,  where  one  could  stand  and  eat  good  tiny 
rolls  split  into  truffle  or  salami  sandwiches,  and  drink  Marsala. 
So  one  after  the  other  he  ate  little  truffle  rolls,  and  drank  a 
few  glasses  of  Marsala.  And  then  he  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
He  did  not  want  to  eat  any  more,  he  had  had  what  he  wanted. 
His  hunger  had  been  more  nervous  than  sensual. 

So  he  went  into  the  street.  It  was  just  growing  dark  and 
the  town  was  lighting  up.  He  felt  curiously  blazed,  as  if  some 
flame  or  electric  power  had  gone  through  him  and  withered 
his  vital  tissue.  Blazed,  as  if  some  kind  of  electric  flame  had 
run  over  him  and  withered  him.  His  brain  felt  withered,  his 
mind  had  only  one  of  its  many-sighted  eyes  left  open  and  un- 
scorched.  So  many  of  the  eyes  of  his  mind  were  scorched  now 
and  sightless. 

Yet  a  restlessness  was  in  his  nerves.  What  should  he  do? 
He  remembered  he  had  a  letter  in  his  pocket  from  Sir  William 
Franks.  Sir  William  had  still  teased  him  about  his  fate  and 
his  providence,  in  which  he,  Aaron,  was  supposed  to  trust. 
"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  from  you,  and  to  know  how  your 
benevolent  Providence— or  was  yours  a  Fate — has  treated 
you  since  we  saw  you '^ 

So,  Aaron  turned  away,  and  walked  to  the  post  office.  There 
he  took  paper,  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables  in  the  writing 
room,  and  wrote  his  answer.  It  was  very  strange,  writing  thus 
when  most  of  his  mind's  eyes  were  scorched,  and  it  seemed  he 
could  hardly  see  to  hold  the  pen,  to  drive  it  straight  across 
the  paper.  Yet  write  he  must.  And  most  of  his  faculties 
being  quenched  or  blasted  for  the  moment,  he  wrote  perhaps 
his  greatest,  or  his  innermost,  truth. — "I  don't  want  my  Fate 


3o8  AARON'S  ROD 

or  my  Providence  to  treat  me  well.  I  don't  want  kindness  or 
love.  I  don't  believe  in  harmony  and  people  loving  one 
another.  I  believe  in  the  fight  and  in  nothing  else.  I  believe 
in  the  fight  which  is  in  everything.  And  if  it  is  a  question  of 
women,  I  believe  in  the  fight  of  love,  even  if  it  blinds  me. 
And  if  it  is  a  question  of  the  world,  I  believe  in  fighting  it 
and  in  having  it  hate  me,  even  if  it  breaks  my  legs.  I  want 
the  world  to  hate  me,  because  I  can't  bear  the  thought  that 
it  might  love  me.  For  of  all  things  love  is  the  most  deadly 
to  me,  and  especially  from  such  a  repulsive  world  as  I  thiii 
this  is.  ..." 

Well,  here  was  a  letter  for  a  poor  old  man  to  receive.  But, 
in  the  dryness  of  his  withered  mind,  Aaron  got  it  out  of  him- 
self. When  a  man  writes  a  letter  to  himself,  it  is  a  pity  to 
post  it  to  somebody  else.    Perhaps  the  same  is  true  of  a  book. 

His  letter  written,  however,  he  stamped  it  and  sealed  it  and 
put  it  in  the  box.  That  made  it  final.  Then  he  turned 
towards  home.  One  fact  remained  unbroken  in  the  debris  of 
his  consciousness:  that  in  the  town  was  Lilly:  and  that  when 
he  needed,  he  could  go  to  Lilly:  also,  that  in  the  world  was 
Lottie,  his  wife:  and  that  against  Lottie,  his  heart  burned 
with  a  deep,  deep,  almost  unreachable  bitterness. — Like  a 
deep  burn  on  his  deepest  soul,  Lottie.  And  like  a  fate  which 
he  resented,  yet  which  steadied  him,  Lilly. 

He  went  home  and  lay  on  his  bed.  He  had  enough  self- 
command  to  hear  the  gong  and  go  down  to  dinner.  White 
and  abstract-looking,  he  sat  and  ate  his  dinner.  And  then,, 
thank  God,  he  could  go  to  bed,  alone,  in  his  own  cold  bed, 
alone,  thank  God.  To  be  alone  in  the  night!  For  this  he 
was  unspeakably  thankful. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


Aaron  awoke  in  the  morning  feeling  better,  but  still  only 
a  part  himself.  The  night  alone  had  restored  him.  And  the 
need  to  be  alone  still  was  his  greatest  need.  He  felt  an  intense 
resentment  against  the  Marchesa.  He  felt  that  somehow,  she 
had  given  him  a  scorpion.  And  his  instinct  was  to  hate  her. 
And  yet  he  avoided  hating  her.  He  remembered  Lilly — and 
the  saying  that  one  must  possess  oneself,  and  be  alone  in  pos- 
session of  oneself.  And  somehow,  under  the  influence  of 
Lilly,  he  refused  to  follow  the  reflex  of  his  own  passion.  He 
refused  to  hate  the  Marchesa.  He  did  like  her.  He  did 
esteem  her.  And  after  all,  she  too  was  struggling  with  her 
fate.  He  had  a  genuine  sympathy  with  her.  Nay,  he  was 
not  going  to  hate  her. 

But  he  could  not  see  her.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought 
that  she  might  call  and  see  him.  So  he  took  the  tram  to 
Settignano,  and  walked  away  all  day  into  the  country,  having 
bread  and  sausage  in  his  pocket.  He  sat  for  long  hours 
among  the  cypress  trees  of  Tuscany.  And  never  had  any  trees 
seemed  so  like  ghosts,  like  soft,  strange,  pregnant  presences. 
He  lay  and  watched  tall  cypresses  breathing  and  communi- 
cating, faintly  moving  and  as  it  were  walking  in  the  small 
wind.  And  his  soul  seemed  to  leave  him  and  to  go  far  away, 
far  back,  perhaps,  to  where  life  was  all  different  and  time 
passed  otherwise  than  time  passes  now.  As  in  clairvoyance  he 
perceived  it:  that  our  life  is  only  a  fragment  of  the  shell  of 
life.  That  there  has  been  and  will  be  life,  human  life  such 
as  we  do  not  begin  to  conceive.  Much  that  is  life  has  passed 
away  from  men,  leaving  us  all  mere  bits.  In  the  dark,  mind- 
ful silence  and  inflection  of  the  cypress  trees,  lost  races,  lost 
language,  lost  human  ways  of  feeling  and  of  knowing.    Men 

309 


3IO  AARON'S  ROD 

have  known  as  we  can  no  more  know,  have  felt  as  we  can  no 
more  feel.  Great  life-realities  gone  into  the  darkness.  But 
the  cypresses  commemorate.  In  the  afternoon,  Aaron  felt  the 
cypresses  rising  dark  about  him,  like  so  many  high  visitants 
from  an  old,  lost,  lost  subtle  world,  where  men  had  the  wonder 
of  demons  about  them,  the  aura  of  demons,  such  as  still  clings 
to  the  cypresses,  in  Tuscany, 

All  day,  he  did  not  make  up  his  mind  what  he  was  going 
to  do.  His  first  impulse  was  never  to  see  her  again.  And 
this  was  his  intention  all  day.  But  as  he  went  home  in  the 
tram  he  softened,  and  thought.  Nay,  that  would  not  be  fair. 
For  how  had  she  treated  him,  otherwise  than  generously. 

She  had  been  generous,  and  the  other  thing,  that  he  felt 
blasted  afterwards,  which  was  his  experience,  that  was  fate, 
and  not  her  fault  So  he  must  see  her  again.  He  must  not  act 
like  a  churl  But  he  would  tell  her — he  would  tell  her  that 
he  was  a  married  man,  and  that  though  he  had  left  his  wife, 
and  though  he  had  no  dogma  of  fidelity,  still,  the  years  of 
marriage  had  made  a  married  man  of  him,  and  any  other 
woman  than  his  wife  was  a  strange  woman  to  him,  a  violation. 
*'I  will  tell  her,''  he  said  to  himself,  "that  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  I  love  Lottie  still,  and  that  I  can't  help  it.  I  believe 
that  is  true.  It  isn't  love,  perhaps.  But  it  is  marriage.  I 
am  married  to  Lottie.  And  that  means  I  can't  be  married 
to  another  woman.  It  isn't  my  nature.  And  perhaps  I  can't 
bear  to  live  with  Lottie  now,  because  I  am  married  and  not  in 
love.  When  a  man  is  married,  he  is  not  in  love.  A  husband 
is  not  a  lover.  Lilly  told  me  that:  and  I  know  it's  true  now. 
Lilly  told  me  that  a  husband  cannot  be  a  lover,  and  a  lover 
cannot  be  a  husband.  And  that  women  will  only  have  lovers 
now,  and  never  a  husband.  Well,  I  am  a  husband,  if  I  am 
anything.  And  I  shall  never  be  a  lover  again,  not  while  I  live. 
No,  not  to  anybody.  I  haven't  it  in  me.  I'm  a  husband, 
and  so  it  is  finished  with  me  as  a  lover.  I  can't  be  a  lover 
any  more,  just  as  I  can't  be  aged  twenty  any  more.  I  am  a 
man  now,  not  an  adolescent.  And  to  my  sorrow  I  am  a  hus- 
band to  a  woman  who  wants  a  lover:  always  a  lover.  But  all 
women  want  lovers.    And  I  can't  be  it  any  more.    I  don't 


CLEOPATRA,  BUT  NOT  ANTHONY  3ii 

want  to.  I  have  finished  that.  Finished  for  ever:  unless  I 
become  senile " 

Therefore  next  day  he  gathered  up  his  courage.  He  would 
not  have  had  courage  unless  he  had  known  that  he  was  not 
alone.  The  other  man  was  in  the  town,  and  from  this  fact 
he  derived  his  strength:  the  fact  that  Lilly  was  there.  So  at 
teatime  he  went  over  the  river,  and  rang  at  her  door.  Yes, 
she  was  at  home,  and  she  had  other  visitors.  She  was  wearing 
a  beautiful  soft  afternoon  dress,  again  of  a  blue  like  chicory- 
flowers,  a  pale,  warm  blue.  And  she  had  cornflowers  in  her 
belt:  heaven  knows  where  she  had  got  them. 

She  greeted  Aaron  with  some  of  the  childish  shyness.  He 
could  tell  that  she  was  glad  he  had  come,  and  that  she  had 
wondered  at  his  not  coming  sooner.  She  introduced  him  to 
her  visitors:  two  young  ladies  and  one  old  lady  and  one  elderly 
Italian  count.  The  conversation  was  mostly  in  French  or 
Italian,  so  Aaron  was  rather  out  of  it. 

However,  the  visitors  left  fairly  early,  so  Aaron  stayed  them 
out.    When  they  had  gone,  he  asked: 

"Where  is  Manfredi?" 

"He  will  come  in  soon.    At  about  seven  o^clock." 

Then  there  was  a  silence  again. 

"You  are  dressed  fine  today,"  he  said  to  her. 

"Am  I?"  she  smiled. 

He  was  never  able  to  make  out  quite  what  she  felt,  what 
she  was  feeling.  But  she  had  a  quiet  little  air  of  proprietor- 
ship in  him,  which  he  did  not  like. 

"You  will  stay  to  dinner  tonight,  won't  you?"  she  said. 

"No — not  tonight,"  he  said.  And  then,  awkwardly,  he 
added:  "You  know.  I  think  it  is  better  if  we  are  friends — 
not  lovers.  You  know — I  don't  feel  free.  I  feel  my  wife,  I 
suppose,  somewhere  inside  me.    And  I  can't  help  it " 

She  bent  her  head  and  was  silent  for  some  moments.  Then 
she  lifted  her  face  and  looked  at  him  oddly. 

"Yes,"  she  said.    "I  am  sure  you  love  your  wife." 

The  reply  rather  staggered  him — and  to  tell  the  truth,  an- 
noyed him. 

"Well,"  he  said,    "I  don't  know  about  love.    But  when  out 


312  AARON'S  ROD 

has  been  married  for  ten  years — and  I  did  love  her — then — 
some  sort  of  bond  or  something  grows.  I  think  some  sort  of 
connection  grows  between  us,  you  know.  And  it  isn't  natural, 
quite,  to  break  it. — Do  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

She  paused  a  moment.  Then,  very  softly,  almost  gently, 
she  said: 

"Yes,  I  do.    I  know  so  well  what  you  mean." 

He  was  really  surprised  at  her  soft  acquiescence.  What  did 
she  mean? 

"But  we  can  be  friends,  can't  we?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  hope  so.  Why,  yes!  Goodness,  yes!  I  should  be 
sorry  if  we  couldn't  be  friends." 

After  which  speech  he  felt  that  everything  was  all  right — 
everything  was  A-i.  And  when  Manfredi  came  home,  the  first 
sound  he  heard  was  the  flute  and  his  wife's  singing, 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,^'  his  wife  said  to  him.  "Shall  we 
go  into  the  sala  and  have  real  music?    Will  you  play?" 

"I  should  love  to,"  replied  the  husband. 

Behold  them  then  in  the  big  drawing-room,  and  Aaron  and 
the  Marchese  practising  together,  and  the  Marchesa  singing 
an  Italian  folk-song  while  her  husband  accompanied  her  on  the 
pianoforte.  But  her  singing  was  rather  strained  and  forced. 
Still,  they  were  quite  a  little  family,  and  it  seemed  quite  nice. 
As  soon  as  she  could,  the  Marchesa  left  the  two  men  together, 
whilst  she  sat  apart.  Aaron  and  Manfredi  went  through  old 
Italian  and  old  German  music,  tried  one  thing  and  then  an- 
other, and  seemed  quite  like  brothers.  They  arranged  a  piece 
which  they  should  play  together  on  a  Saturday  morning,  eight 
days  hence. 

The  next  day,  Saturday,  Aaron  went  to  one  of  the  Del 
Torre  music  mornings.  There  was  a  string  quartette — and  a 
violin  soloist — and  the  Marchese  at  the  piano.  The  audience, 
some  dozen  or  fourteen  friends,  sat  at  the  near  end  of  the 
room,  or  in  the  smaller  salotta,  whilst  the  musicians  performed 
at  the  further  end  of  the  room.  The  Lillys  were  there,  both 
Tanny  and  her  husband.  But  apart  from  these,  Aaron  knew 
nobody,  and  felt  uncomfortable.  The  Marchesa  gave  her 
guests  little  sandwiches  and  glasses  of  wine  or  Marsala  or  ver- 


CLEOPATRA,  BUT  NOT  ANTHONY  313 

mouth,  as  they  chose.  And  she  was  quite  the  hostess:  the 
well-bred  and  very  simple,  but  still  the  conventional  hostess. 
Aaron  did  not  like  it.  And  he  could  see  that  Lilly  too  was 
unhappy.  In  fact,  the  little  man  bolted  the  moment  he  could, 
dragging  after  him  the  indignant  Tanny,  who  was  so  looking 
forward  to  the  excellent  little  sandwiches.  But  no — Lilly 
just  rudely  bolted.    Aaron  followed  as  soon  as  he  could. 

"Will  you  come  to  dinner  tomorrow  evening?"  said  his 
hostess  to  him  as  he  was  leaving.  And  he  agreed.  He  had 
really  resented  seeing  her  as  a  conventional  hostess,  attending 
so  charmingly  to  all  the  other  people,  and  treating  him  so 
merely  as  one  of  the  guests,  among  many  others.  So  that 
when  at  the  last  moment  she  quietly  invited  him  to  dinner 
next  day,  he  was  flattered  and  accepted  at  once. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday — the  seventh  day  after  his  com- 
ing together  with  the  Marchesa — which  had  taken  place  on  the 
Monday.  And  already  he  was  feeling  much  less  dramatic  in 
his  decision  to  keep  himself  apart  from  her,  to  be  merely 
friends.  Already  the  memory  of  the  last  time  was  fanning  up 
in  him,  net  as  a  warning  but  as  a  terrible  incitement.  Again 
the  naked  desire  was  getting  hold  of  him,  with  that  peculiar 
brutal  powerfulness  which  startled  him  and  also  pleased  him. 

So  that  by  the  time  Sunday  morning  came,  his  recoil  had 
exhausted  itself,  and  he  was  ready  again,  eager  again,  but 
more  wary  this  time.  He  sat  in  his  room  alone  in  the  morn- 
ing, playing  his  flute,  playing  over  from  memory  the  tunes 
she  loved,  and  imagining  how  he  and  she  would  get  into  unison 
in  the  evening.  His  flute,  his  Aaron's  rod,  would  blossom  once 
again  with  splendid  scarlet  flowers,  the  red  Florentine  lilies. 
It  was  curious,  the  passion  he  had  for  her:  just  unalloyed  de- 
sire, and  nothing  else.  Something  he  had  not  known  in  his 
life  before.  Previously  there  had  been  always  some  personal 
quality,  some  sort  of  personal  tenderness.  But  here,  none. 
She  did  not  seem  to  want  it.  She  seemed  to  hate  it,  indeed. 
No,  all  he  felt  was  stark,  naked  desire,  without  a  single  pre- 
tension. True  enough,  his  last  experience  had  been  a  warning 
to  him.  His  desire  and  himself  likewise  had  broken  rather 
disastrously  under  the  proving.    But  not  finally  broken.    He 


314  AARON'S  ROD 

was  ready  again.  And  with  all  the  sheer  powerful  insolence  of 
desire  he  looked  forward  to  the  evening.  For  he  almost  ex- 
pected Manfredi  would  not  be  there.  The  officer  had  said 
something  about  having  to  go  to  Padua  on  the  Saturday  after- 
noon. 

So  Aaron  went  skipping  off  to  his  appointment,  at  seven 
o'clock.  Judge  of  his  chagrin,  then,  when  he  found  already 
seated  in  the  salotta  an  elderly,  quite  well-known,  very  cul- 
tured and  very  well-connected  English  authoress.  She  was 
charming,  in  her  white  hair  and  dress  of  soft  white  wool  and 
white  lace,  with  a  long  chain  of  filigree  gold  beads,  like  bub- 
bles. She  was  charming  in  her  old-fashioned  manner  too,  as 
if  the  world  were  still  safe  and  stable,  like  a  garden  in  which 
delightful  culture,  and  choice  ideas  bloomed  safe  from  wind 
and  weather.  Alas,  never  was  Aaron  more  conscious  of  the 
crude  collapse  in  the  world  than  when  he  listened  to  this  ani- 
mated, young-seeming  lady  from  the  safe  days  of  the  seventies. 
All  the  old  culture  and  choice  ideas  seemed  like  blowing  bub- 
bles. And  dear  old  Corinna  Wade,  she  seemed  to  be  blowing 
bubbles  still,  as  she  sat  there  so  charming  in  her  soft  white 
dress,  and  talked  with  her  bright  animation  about  the  influ- 
ence of  woman  in  Parliament  and  the  influence  of  woman  in 
the  Periclean  day.  Aaron  listened  spell-bound,  watching  the 
bubbles  float  round  his  head,  and  almost  hearing  them  go  pop. 

To  complete  the  party  arrived  an  elderly  litterateur  who 
was  more  proud  of  his  not-very-important  social  standing  than 
of  his  literature.  In  fact  he  was  one  of  those  English  snobs 
of  the  old  order,  living  abroad.  Perfectly  well  dressed  for  the 
evening,  his  grey  hair  and  his  prim  face  was  the  most  well- 
dressed  thing  to  be  met  in  North  Italy. 

''Oh,  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  French.  I  didn't  know  you 
were  in  Florence  again.  You  make  that  journey  from  Venice 
so  often.  I  wonder  you  don't  get  tired  of  it,"  cried  Corinna 
Wade. 

"No,"  he  said.  "So  long  as  duty  to  England  calls  me  to 
Florence,  I  shall  come  to  Florence.  But  I  can  live  in  no  town 
but  Venice." 

"No,  I  suppose  you  can't.    Well,  there  is  something  special 


i 


CLEOPATRA,  BUT  NOT  ANTHONY  315 

about  Venice:  having  no  streets  and  no  carriages,  and  moving 
about  in  a  gondola.    I  suppose  it  is  all  much  more  soothing." 

"Much  less  nerve-racking,  yes.  And  then  there  is  a  quality 
in  the  whole  life.  Of  course  I  see  few  English  people  in 
Venice — only  the  old  Venetian  families,  as  a  rule." 

"Ah,  yes.  That  must  be  very  interesting.  They  are  very 
exclusive  still,  the  Venetian  noblesse?"  said  Miss  Wade. 

"Oh,  very  exclusive,"  said  Mr.  French.  "That  is  one  of 
the  charms.  Venice  is  really  altogether  exclusive.  It  excludes 
the  world,  really,  and  defies  time  and  modern  movement.  Yes, 
in  spite  of  the  steamers  on  the  canal,  and  the  tourists." 

"That  is  so.  That  is  so.  Venice  is  a  strange  back-water. 
And  the  old  families  are  very  proud  still,  in  these  democratic 
days.    They  have  a  great  opinion  of  themselves,  I  am  told." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  French.    "Perhaps  you  know  the  rhyme: 

"  'Veneziano  gran*   Signore 
Padovano  buon'  dotore. 
Vicenzese  mangia  il  gatto 
Veronese  tutto  matto "* 

"How  very  amusing!"  said  Miss  Wade.  "Veneziana  gran' 
Signore.  The  Venetian  is  a  great  gentleman!  Yes,  I  know 
they  are  all  convinced  of  it.  Really,  how  very  amusing,  in 
these  advanced  days.  To  be  born  a  Venetian,  is  to  be  born  a 
great  gentleman!     But  this  outdoes  divine  right  of  king." 

"To  be  born  a  Venetian  gentleman,  is  to  be  born  a  great 
gentleman,"  said  Mr.  French,  rather  fussily. 

"You  seriously  think  so?"  said  Miss  Wade.  "Well  now, 
what  do  you  base  your  opinion  on?" 

Mr.  French  gave  various  bases  for  his  opinion. 

"Yes — interesting.  Very  interesting.  Rather  like  the  Byz- 
antines— lingering  on  into  far  other  ages.  Anna  Comnena 
always  charmed  me  very  much.  How  she  despised  the  flower 
of  the  north — even  Tancred!  And  so  the  lingering  Venetian 
families!  And  you,  in  your  palazzo  on  the  Grand  Canal: 
you  are  a  northern  barbarian  civilised  into  the  old  Venetian 
Signoria.    But  how  very  romantic  a  situation!" 


3i6  AARON'S  ROD 

It  was  really  amusing  to  see  the  old  maid,  how  she  skir- 
mished and  hit  out  gaily,  like  an  old  jaunty  free  lance: 
and  to  see  the  old  bachelor,  how  prim  he  was,  and  nervy  and 
fussy  and  precious,  like  an  old  maid. 

But  need  we  say  that  Mr.  Aaron  felt  very  much  out  of  it. 
He  sat  and  listened,  with  a  sardonic  small  smile  on  his  face 
and  a  sardonic  gleam  in  his  blue  eyes,  that  looked  so  very 
blue  on  such  an  occasion.  He  made  the  two  elderly  people 
uncomfortable  with  his  silence:  his  democratic  silence,  Miss 
Wade  might  have  said. 

However,  Miss  Wade  lived  out  towards  Galuzzo,  so  she  rose 
early,  to  catch  her  tram.  And  Mr.  French  gallantly  and  prop- 
erly rose  to  accompany  her,  to  see  her  safe  on  board.  Which 
left  Aaron  and  the  Marchesa  alone. 

"What  time  is  Manfredi  coming  back?"  said  he. 

''Tomorrow,"   replied   she. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Why  do  you  have  those  people?"  he  asked. 

"Who?" 

"Those  two  who  were  here  this  evening." 

"Miss  Wade  and  Mr.  French? — Oh,  I  like  Miss  Wade  so 
very  much.    She  is  so  refreshing." 

"Those  old  people,"  said  Aaron.  "They  licked  the  sugar 
off  the  pill,  and  go  on  as  if  everything  was  toffee.  And  we've 
got  to  swallow  the  pill.    It's  easy  to  be  refreshing " 

"No,  don't  say  anything  against  her.    I  like  her  so  much." 

"And  him?" 

"Mr.  French! — ^Well,  he's  perhaps  a  little  like  the  princess 
who  felt  the  pea  through  three  feather-beds.  But  he  can  be 
quite  witty,  and  an  excellent  conversationalist,  too.  Oh  yes, 
I  like  him  quite  well." 

"Matter  of  taste,"  said  Aaron. 

They  had  not  much  to  say  to  one  another.  The  time 
passed,  in  the  pauses.    He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I  shall  have  to  go,"  he  said. 

"Won't  you  stay?"  she  said,  in  a  small,  muted  voice. 

"Stay  ajl  night?"  he  said. 

"Won't  you?" 


CLEOPATRA,  BUT  NOT  ANTHONY  317 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly.  Did  he  not  feel  the  strength  of 
his  desire  on  him. 

After  which  she  said  no  more.  Only  she  offered  him 
whiskey  and  soda,  which  he  accepted. 

"Go  then,"  he  said  to  her.  "And  I'll  come  to  you.—Shall 
I  come  in  fifteen  minutes?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  strange,  slow  dark  eyes.  And  he 
could  not  understand. 

"Yes,"  she  said.    And  she  went. 

And  again,  this  night  as  before,  she  seemed  strangely  small 
and  clinging  in  his  arms.  And  this  night  he  felt  his  passion 
drawn  from  him  as  if  a  long,  live  nerve  were  drawn  out  from 
his  body,  a  long  live  thread  of  electric  fire,  a  long,  living  nerve 
finely  extracted  from  him,  from  the  very  roots  of  his  soul.  A 
long  fine  discharge  of  pure,  bluish  fire,  from  the  core  of  his  soul. 
It  was  an  excruciating,  but  also  an  intensely  gratifying  sensa- 
tion. 

This  night  he  slept  with  a  deeper  obliviousness  than  before. 
But  ah,  as  it  grew  towards  morning  how  he  wished  he  coul4 
be  alone. 

They  must  stay  together  till  the  day  was  light.  And  she 
seemed  to  love  clinging  to  him  and  curling  strangely  on  his 
breast.  He  could  never  reconcile  it  with  her  who  was  a 
hostess  entertaining  her  guests.  How  could  she  now  in  a  sort 
of  little  ecstasy  curl  herself  and  nestle  herself  on  his,  Aaron's 
breast,  tangling  his  face  all  over  with  her  hair.  He  verily 
believed  that  this  was  what  she  really  wanted  of  him:  to  curl 
herself  on  his  naked  breast,  to  make  herself  small,  small,  to 
feel  his  arms  around  her,  while  he  himself  was  remote,  silent,  in 
some  way  inaccessible.  This  seemed  almost  to  make  her  beside 
herself  with  gratification.  But  why,  why?  Was  it  because  he 
was  one  of  her  own  race,  and  she,  as  it  were,  crept  right  home 
to  him? 

He  did  not  know.  He  only  knew  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
him:  and  that,  save  out  of  complaisance,  he  did  not  want  it. 
It  simply  blasted  his  own  central  life.    It  simply  blighted  him. 

And  she  clung  to  him  closer.  Strange,  she  was  afraid  of  him! 
Afraid  of  him  as  of  a  fetish  1     Fetish  afraid,  and  fetish-fasci- 


3i8  AARON'S  ROD 

natedl  Or  was  her  fear  only  a  delightful  game  of  cat  and 
mouse?  Or  was  the  fear  genuine,  and  the  delight  the  greater: 
a  sort  of  sacrilege?  The  fear,  and  the  dangerous,  sacrilegious 
power  over  that  which  she  feared. 

In  some  way,  she  was  not  afraid  of  him  at  all.  In  some 
other  way  she  used  him  as  a  mere  magic  implement,  used  him 
with  the  most  amazing  priestess-craft.  Himself,  the  individual 
man  which  he  was,  this  she  treated  with  an  indifference  that 
was  startling  to  him. 

He  forgot,  perhaps,  that  this  was  how  he  had  treated  her. 
His  famous  desire  for  her,  what  had  it  been  but  this  same 
attempt  to  strike  a  magic  fire  out  of  her,  for  his  own  ecstasy. 
They  were  playing  the  same  game  of  fire.  In  him,  however, 
there  was  all  the  time  something  hard  and  reckless  and  defiant, 
which  stood  apart.  She  was  absolutely  gone  in  her  own  in- 
cantations. She  was  absolutely  gone,  like  a  priestess  utterly 
involved  in  her  terrible  rites.  And  he  was  part  of  the  ritual 
only,  God  and  victim  in  one.  God  and  victim!  All  the  time, 
God  and  victim.  When  his  aloof  soul  realised,  amid  the  welter 
of  incantation,  how  he  was  being  used, — not  as  himself  but  as 
something  quite  different — God  and  victim — then  he  dilated 
with  intense  surprise,  and  his  remote  soul  stood  up  tall  and 
knew  itself  alone.  He  didn't  want  it,  not  at  all.  He  knew  he 
was  apart.  And  he  looked  back  over  the  whole  mystery  of 
their  love-contact.    Only  his  soul  was  apart. 

He  was  aware  of  the  strength  and  beauty  and  godlikeness 
that  his  breast  was  then  to  her — the  magic.  But  himself,  he 
stood  far  off,  like  Moses'  sister  Miriam.  She  would  drink  the 
one  drop  of  his  innermost  heart's  blood,  and  he  would  be  car- 
rion. As  Cleopatra  killed  her  lovers  in  the  morning.  Surely 
they  knew  that  death  was  their  just  climax.  They  had  ap- 
proached the  climax.    Accept  then. 

But  his  soul  stood  apart,  and  could  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  If  he  had  really  been  tempted,  he  would  have  gone 
on,  and  she  might  have  had  his  central  heart's  blood.  Yes, 
and  thrown  away  the  carrion.  He  would  have  been 
willing. 

But  fatally,  he  was  not  tempted.    His  soul  stood  apart  and 


CLEOPATRA,  BUT  NOT  ANTHONY  319 

decided.  At  the  bottom  of  his  soul  he  disliked  her.  Or  if  not 
her,  then  her  whole  motive.  Her  whole  life-mode.  He  was 
neither  God  nor  victim:  neither  greater  nor  less  than  himself. 
His  soul,  in  its  isolation  as  she  lay  on  his  breast,  chose  it  so, 
with  the  soul's  inevitability.    So,  there  was  no  temptation. 

When  it  was  sufficiently  light,  he  kissed  her  and  left  her. 
Quietly  he  left  the  silent  flat.  He  had  some  difficulty  in  un- 
fastening the  various  locks  and  bars  and  catches  of  the  massive 
door  downstairs,  and  began,  in  irritation  and  anger,  to  feel  he 
was  a  prisoner,  that  he  was  locked  in.  But  suddenly  the 
ponderous  door  came  loose,  and  he  was  out  in  the  street.  The 
door  shut  heavily  behind  him,  with  a  shudder.  He  was  out  in 
the  morning  streets  of  Florence. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  BROKEN   ROD 

The  day  was  rainy.  Aaron  stayed  indoors  alone,  and 
copied  music  and  slept.  He  felt  the  same  stunned,  withered 
feeling  as  before,  but  less  intensely,  less  disastrously,  this  time. 
He  knew  now,  without  argument  or  thought  that  he  would 
never  go  again  to  the  Marchesa:  not  as  a  lover.  He  would  go 
away  from  it  all.  He  did  not  dislike  her.  But  he  would 
never  see  her  again.  A  great  gulf  had  opened,  leaving  him 
alone  on  the  far  side. 

He  did  not  go  out  till  after  dinner.  When  he  got  down- 
stairs he  found  the  heavy  night-door  closed.  He  wondered: 
then  remembered  the  Signorina's  fear  of  riots  and  disturbances. 
As  again  he  fumbled  with  the  catches,  he  felt  that  the  doors 
of  Florence  were  trying  to  prevent  his  egress.  However,  he 
got  out. 

It  was  a  very  dark  night,  about  nine  o*clock,  and  deserted 
seeming.  He  was  struck  by  the  strange,  deserted  feeling  of 
the  city's  atmosphere.  Yet  he  noticed  before  him,  at  the  foot 
of  the  statue,  three  men,  one  with  a  torch:  a  long  torch  with 
naked  flames.  The  men  were  stooping  over  something  dark, 
the  man  with  the  torch  bending  forward  too.  It  was  a  dark, 
weird  little  group,  like  Mediaeval  Florence.  Aaron  lingered 
on  his  doorstep,  watching.  He  could  not  see  what  they  were 
doing.  But  now,  the  two  were  crouching  down;  over  a  long 
dark  object  on  the  ground,  and  the  one  with  the  torch  bend- 
ing also  to  look.  What  was  it?  They  were  just  at  the  foot 
of  the  statue,  a  dark  little  group  under  the  big  pediment,  the 
torch-flames  weirdly  flickering  as  the  torch-bearer  moved  and 
stooped  lower  to  the  two  crouching  men,  who  seemed  to  be 
kneeling. 

Aaron  felt  his  blood  stir.    There  was  something  dark  and 

320 


THE  BROKEN  ROD  321 

mysterious,  stealthy,  in  the  little  scene.  It  was  obvious  the 
men  did  not  want  to  draw  attention,  they  were  so  quiet  and 
furtive-seeming.  And  an  eerie  instinct  prevented  Aaron's 
going  nearer  to  look.  Instead,  he  swerved  on  to  the  Lungarno, 
and  went  along  the  top  of  the  square,  avoiding  the  little  group 
in  the  centre.  He  walked  the  deserted  dark-seeming  street  by 
the  river,  then  turned  inwards,  into  the  city.  He  was  going 
to  the  Piazza  Vittoria  Emmanuele,  to  sit  in  the  cafe  which  is 
the  centre  of  Florence  at  night.  There  he  could  sit  for  an 
hour,  and  drink  his  vermouth  and  watch  the  Florentines. 

As  he  went  along  one  of  the  dark,  rather  narrow  streets, 
he  heard  a  hurrying  of  feet  behind  him.  Glancing  round,  he 
saw  the  torch-bearer  coming  along  at  a  trot,  holding  his 
flaming  torch  up  in  front  of  him  as  he  trotted  down  the  middle 
of  the  narrow  dark  street.  Aaron  shrank  under  the  wall. 
The  trotting  torch-bearer  drew  near,  and  now  Aaron  perceived 
the  other  two  men  slowly  trotting  behind,  stealthily,  bear- 
ing a  stretcher  on  which  a  body  was  wrapped  up,  completely 
and  darkly  covered.  The  torch-bearer  passed,  the  men  with 
the  stretcher  passed  too,  hastily  and  stealthily,  the  flickering 
flames  revealing  them.  They  took  no  notice  of  Aaron,  no  no- 
tice of  anything,  but  trotted  softly  on  towards  the  centre  of 
the  city.  Their  queer,  quick  footsteps  echoed  down  the  dis- 
tance.   Then  Aaron  too  resumed  his  way. 

He  came  to  the  large,  brilliantly-lighted  cafe.  It  was  Sunday 
evening,  and  the  place  was  full.  Men,  Florentines,  many, 
many  men  sat  in  groups  and  in  twos  and  threes  at  the  little 
marble  tables.  They  were  mostly  in  dark  clothes  or  black 
overcoats.  They  had  mostly  been  drinking  just  a  cup  of 
coffee — others  however  had  glasses  of  wine  or  liquor.  But 
mostly  it  was  just  a  little  coffee-tray  with  a  tiny  coffee  pot 
and  a  cup  and  saucer.  There  was  a  faint  film  of  tobacco 
smoke.  And  the  men  were  all  talking:  talking,  talking  with 
that  peculiar  intensity  of  the  Florentines.  Aaron  felt  the 
intense,  compressed  sound  of  many  half-secret  voices.  For 
the  little  groups  and  couples  abated  their  voices,  none  wished 
that  others  should  hear  what  they  said. 

Aaron  was  looking  for  a  seat— there  was  no  table  to  him- 


322  AARON'S  ROD 

self — ^when  suddenly  someone  took  him  by  the  arm.    It  was 
Argyla. 

*'Com«  along,  now  I  Come  and  join  us.  Here,  this  way! 
Come  alongl" 

Aaron  let  himself  be  led  away  towards  a  corner.  There  sat 
Lilly  and  a  strange  man:  called  Levison.  The  room  was 
warm.  Aaron  could  never  bear  to  be  too  hot.  After  sitting 
a  minute,  he  rose  and  took  off  his  coat,  and  hung  it  on  a 
stand  near  the  window.  As  he  did  so  he  felt  the  weight  of  his 
flute — it  was  still  in  his  pocket.  And  he  wondered  if  it  was 
safe  to  leave  it. 

*'I  suppose  no  one  will  steal  from  the  overcoat  pockets," 
he  said,  as  he  sat  down. 

*'My  dear  chap,  they'd  steal  the  gold  filling  out  of  your 
teeth,  if  you  happened  to  yawn,"  said  Argyle.  "Why,  have 
you  left  valuables  in  your  overcoat?" 

"My  flute,"  said  Aaron. 

"Oh,  they  won't  steal  that,"  said  Argyle. 

"Besides,"  said  Lilly,  "we  should  see  anyone  who  touched 
it." 

And  so  they  settled  down  to  the  vermouth. 

"Well,"  said  Argyle,  "what  have  you  been  doing  with  your- 
self, eh?  I  haven't  seen  a  glimpse  of  you  for  a  week.  Been 
going  to  the  dogs,  eh?" 

"Or  the  bitches,"  said  Aaron. 

"Oh,  but  look  here,  that's  bad!  That's  bad!  I  can  see 
I  shall  have  to  take  you  in  hand,  and  commence  my  work 
of  reform.  Oh,  I'm  a  great  reformer,  a  Zwingli  and  Savonarola 
in  one.  I  couldn't  count  the  number  of  people  I've  led  into  the 
right  way.  It  takes  some  finding,  you  know.  Strait  is  the 
gate — damned  strait  sometimes.  A  damned  tight  squeeze. 
.  .  ."  Argyle  was  somewhat  intoxicated.  He  spoke  with  a 
slight  slur,  and  laughed,  really  tickled  at  his  own  jokes.  The 
man  Levison  smiled  acquiescent.  But  Lilly  was  not  listening. 
His  brow  was  heavy  and  he  seemed  abstracted.  He  hardly 
noticed  Aaron's  arrival. 

"Did  you  see  the  row  yesterday?"  asked  Levison. 

"No,"  said  Aaron.    "What  was  it?" 


THE  BROKEN  ROD  323 

"It  was  the  socialists.  They  were  making  a  demonstra- 
tion against  the  imprisonment  of  one  of  the  railway-strikers. 
I  was  there.  They  went  on  all  right,  with  a  good  bit  of  howl- 
ing and  gibing:  a  lot  of  young  louts,  you  know.  And  the 
shop-keepers  shut  up  shop,  and  nobody  showed  the  Italian 
flag,  of  course.  Well,  when  they  came  to  the  Via  Benedetto 
Croce,  there  were  a  few  mounted  carabinieri.  So  they  stopped 
the  procession,  and  the  sergeant  said  that  the  crowd  could  con- 
tinue, could  go  on  where  they  liked,  but  would  they  not  go 
down  the  Via  Verrocchio,  because  it  was  being  repaired,  the 
roadway  was  all  up,  and  there  were  piles  of  cobble  stones. 
These  might  prove  a  temptation  and  lead  to  trouble.  So 
would  the  demonstrators  not  take  that  road — they  might  take 
any  other  they  liked. — ^Well,  the  very  moment  he  had  finished, 
there  was  a  revolver  shot,  he  made  a  noise,  and  fell  forward 
over  his  horse's  nose.  One  of  the  anarchists  had  shot  him. 
Then  there  was  hell  let  loose,  the  carabinieri  fired  back,  and 
people  were  bolting  and  fighting  like  devils.  I  cleared  out, 
myself.    But  my  God — what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Seems  pretty  mean,"  said  Aaron. 

"Mean! — ^He  had  just  spoken  them  fair — they  could  go 
where  they  liked,  only  would  they  not  go  down  the  one  road, 
because  of  the  heap  of  stones.  And  they  let  him  finish.  And 
then  shot  him  dead." 

"Was  he  dead?"  said  Aaron. 

"Yes — killed  outright,  the  Nazione  says." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  drinkers  in  the  cafe  all  continued 
to  talk  vehemently,  casting  uneasy  glances. 

"Well,"  said  Argyle,  "if  you  let  loose  the  dogs  of  war, 
you  mustn't  expect  them  to  come  to  heel  again  in  five  minutes." 

"But  there's  no  fair  play  about  it,  not  a  bit,"  said  Levison. 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  are  you  still  so  young  and  callow  that 
you  cherish  the  illusion  of  fair  play?"  said  Argyle. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Levison. 

"Live  longer  and  grow  wiser,"  said  Argyle,  rather  con- 
temptuously. 

"Are  you  a  socialist?"  asked  Levison. 

"Am  I  my  aunt  Tabitha's  dachshund  bitch  called  Bella," 


324  AARON'S  ROD 

said  Argyle,  in  his  musical,  indifferent  voice.  "Yes,  Bella's 
her  name.  And  if  you  can  tell  me  a  damneder  name  for  a 
dog,  I  shall  listen,  I  assure  you,  attentively.'* 

"But  you  haven't  got  an  aunt  called  Tabitha,"  said  Aaron. 

"Haven't  I?  Oh,  haven't  I?  I've  got  two  aunts  called 
Tabitha:  if  not  more." 

"They  aren't  of  any  vital  importance  to  you,  are  they?" 
said  Levison. 

"Not  the  very  least  in  the  world — if  it  hadn't  been  that 
my  elder  Aunt  Tabitha  had  christened  her  dachshund  bitch 
Bella.  I  cut  myself  off  from  the  family  after  that.  Oh,  I 
turned  over  a  new  leaf,  with  not  a  family  name  on  it.  Couldn't 
stand  Bella  amongst  the  rest." 

"You  must  have  strained  most  of  the  gnats  out  of  your 
drink,  Argyle,"  said  Lilly,  laughing. 

"Assiduously!  Assiduously!  I  can't  stand  these  little 
vermin.  Oh,  I  am  quite  indifferent  about  swallowing  a 
camel  or  two — or  even  a  whole  string  of  dromedaries.  How 
charmingly  Eastern  that  sounds!  But  gnats!  Not  for  any- 
thing in  the  world  would  I  swallow  one." 

*' You're  a  bit  of  a  socialist  though,  aren't  you?"  persisted 
Levison,  now  turning  to  Lilly. 

"No,"  said  Lilly.    "I  was." 

"And  am  no  more,"  said  Argyle  sarcastically.  "My  dear 
fellow,  the  only  hope  of  salvation  for  the  world  lies  in  the 
re-institution  of  slavery." 

"What  kind  of  slavery?"  asked  Levison. 

"Slavery!  Slavery/  When  I  say  slavery  I  don't  mean 
any  of  your  damned  modern  reform  cant.  I  mean  solid  sound 
slavery  on  which  the  Greek  and  the  Roman  world  rested. 
Far  finer  worlds  than  ours,  my  dear  chap!  Oh  far  finer! 
And  can't  be  done  without  slavery.  Simply  can't  be  done. — 
Oh,  they'll  all  come  to  realise  it,  when  they've  had  a  bit  more 
of  this  democratic  washer-women  business." ' 

Levison  was  laughing,  with  a  slight  sneer  down  his  nose. 

"Anyhow,  there's  no  immediate  danger — or  hope,  if  you 
prefer  it. — Of  the  re-instituting  of  classic  slavery,"  he  said. 

"Unfortunately  no.    We  are  all  such  fools,"  said  Argyle. 


THE  BROKEN  ROD  325 

"Besides,"  said  Levison,  "who  would  you  make  slaves  of?" 

"Everybody,  my  dear  chap:  begimiing  with  the  idealists 
and  the  theorising  Jews,  and  after  them  your  nicely-bred 
gentlemen,  and  then  perhaps,  your  profiteers  and  Rothschilds, 
and  all  politicians,  and  ending  up  with  the  proletariat,"  said 
Argyle. 

"Then  who  would  be  the  masters? — the  professional  classes, 
doctors  and  lawyers  and  so  on?" 

"What?  Masters.  They  would  be  the  sewerage  slaves,  as 
being  those  who  had  made  most  smells." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"The  only  fault  I  have  to  find  with  your  system,"  said 
Levison,  rather  acidly,  "is  that  there  would  be  only  one  master, 
and  everybody  else  slaves." 

"Do  you  call  that  a  fault?  What  do  you  want  with  more 
than  one  master?  Are  you  asking  for  several? — ^Well,  perhaps 
there's  cunning  in  that. — Cunning  devils,  cunning  devils,  these 
theorising  slaves — "  And  Argyle  pushed  his  face  with  a 
devilish  leer  into  Aaron's  face.  "Cunning  devils!"  he 
reiterated,  with  a  slight  tipsy  slur.  "That  be-fouled  Epictetus 
wasn't  the  last  of  'em — ^nor  the  first.  Oh,  not  by  any  means, 
not  by  any  means." 

Here  Lilly  could  not  avoid  a  slight  spasm  of  amusement. 

"But  returning  to  serious  conversation,"  said  Levison,  turn- 
ing his  rather  sallow  face  to  Lilly.  "I  think  you'll  agree  with 
me  that  socialism  is  the  inevitable  next  step — " 

Lilly  waited  for  some  time  without  answering.  Then  he 
said,  with  unwilling  attention  to  the  question: 

"I  suppose  it's  the  logically  inevitable  next  step." 

"Use  logic  as  lavatory  paper,"  cried  Argyle  harshly. 

"Yes — logically  inevitable — and  humanly  inevitable  at  the 
same  time.  Some  form  of  socialism  is  bound  to  come,  no 
matter  how  you  postpone  it  or  try  variations,"  said  Levison. 

"All  right,  let  it  come,"  said  Lilly.  "It's  not  my  affair, 
neither  to  help  it  nor  to  keep  it  back,  or  even  to  try  varying 
it." 

"There  I  don't  follow  you,"  said  Levison.  "Suppose  you 
were  in  Russia  now — " 


326  AARON'S  ROD 

"I  watch  it  I'm  not." 

"But  you're  in  Italy,  which  isn't  far  off.  Supposing  a 
socialist  revolution  takes  place  all  around  you.  Won't  that 
force  the  problem  on  you? — ^It  is  every  man's  problem,"  per- 
sisted Levison. 

"Not  mine,"  said  Lilly. 

"How  shall  you  escape  it?"  said  Levison. 

"Because  to  me  it  is  no  problem.  To  Bolsh  or  not  to  Bolsh, 
as  far  as  my  mind  goes,  presents  no  problem.  Not  any  more 
than  to  be  or  not  to  be.  To  be  or  not  to  be  is  simply  no 
problem — " 

"No,  I  quite  agree,  that  since  you  are  already  existing, 
and  since  death  is  ultimately  inevitable,  to  be  or  not  to  be  is 
no  sound  problem,"  said  Levison.  "But  the  parallel  isn't  true 
of  socialism.  That  is  not  a  problem  of  existence,  but  of  a 
certain  mode  of  existence  which  centuries  of  thought  and 
action  on  the  part  of  Europe  have  now  made  logically  in- 
evitable for  Europe.  And  therefore  there  is  a  problem.  There 
is  more  than  a  problem,  there  is  a  dilemma.  Either  we  must 
go  to  the  logical  conclusion — or — " 

"Somewhere  else,"  said  Lilly. 

"Yes — yes.  Precisely!  But  where  else?  That's  the  one 
half  of  the  problem:  supposing  you  do  not  agree  to  a  logical 
progression  in  human  social  activity.  Because  after  all, 
human  society  through  the  course  of  ages  only  enacts, 
spasmodically  but  still  inevitably,  the  logical  development  of 
a  given  idea." 

"Well,  then,  I  tell  you. — The  idea  and  the  ideal  has  for  me 
gone  dead — dead  as  carrion — " 

"Which  idea,  which  ideal  precisely?" 

"The  ideal  of  love,  the  ideal  that  it  is  better  to  give  than 
to  receive,  the  ideal  of  liberty,  the  ideal  of  the  brotherhood 
of  man,  the  ideal  of  the  sanctity  of  human  life,  the  ideal  of 
what  we  call  goodness,  charity,  benevolence,  public  spirited- 
ness,  the  ideal  of  sacrifice  for  a  cause,  the  ideal  of  unity  and 
unanimity — all  the  lot — all  the  whole  beehive  of  ideals — 
has  all  got  the  modern  bee-disease,  and  gone  putrid,  stinking. 
— ^And  when  the  ideal  is  dead  and  putrid,  the  logical  sequence 


THE  BROKEN  ROD  327 

is  only  stink. — ^Which,  for  me,  is  the  truth  concerning  the 
ideal  of  good,  peaceful,  loving  humanity  and  its  logical 
sequence  in  socialism  and  equality,  equal  opportunity  or  what- 
ever you  like. — But  this  time  he  stinketh — and  I'm  sorry  for 
any  Christus  who  brings  him  to  life  again,  to  stink  livingly  for 
another  thirty  years:  the  beastly  Lazarus  of  our  idealism/' 

"That  may  be  true  for  you — " 

''But  it's  true  for  nobody  else,"  said  Lilly.  "All  the  worse 
for  them.    Let  them  die  of  the  bee-disease." 

"Not  only  that,"  persisted  Levison,  "but  what  is  your 
alternative?    Is  it  merely  nihilism?" 

"My  alternative,"  said  Lilly,  "is  an  alternative  for  no  one 
but  myself,  so  I'll  keep  my  mouth  shut  about  it." 

"That  isn't  fair." 

"I  tell  you,  the  ideal  of  fairness  stinks  with  the  rest. — ^I 
have  no  obligation  to  say  what  I  think." 

"Yes,  if  you  enter  into  conversation,  you  have — " 

"Bah,  then  I  didn't  enter  into  conversation. — ^The  only 
thing  is,  I  agree  in  the  rough  with  Argyle.  You've  got  to 
have  a  sort  of  slavery  again.  People  are  not  men:  they  are 
insects  and  instruments,  and  their  destiny  is  slavery.  They 
are  too  many  for  me,  and  so  what  I  think  is  ineffectual.  But 
ultimately  they  will  be  brought  to  agree — after  sufficient  ex- 
termination— and  then  they  will  elect  for  themselves  a  proper 
and  healthy  and  energetic  slavery." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  you  mean  by  slavery.  Because 
to  me  it  is  impossible  that  slavery  should  be  healthy  and 
energetic.  You  seem  to  have  some  other  idea  in  your  mind, 
and  you  merely  use  the  word  slavery  out  of  exasperation — " 

"I  mean  it  none  the  less.  I  mean  a  real  committal  of  the 
life-issue  of  inferior  beings  to  the  responsibility  of  a  superior 
being." 

"It'll  take  a  bit  of  knowing,  who  are  the  inferior  and  which 
is  the  superior,"  said  Levison  sarcastically. 

"Not  a  bit.  It  is  written  between  a  man's  brows,  which  he 
is." 

"I'm  afraid  we  shall  all  read  differently." 

"So  long  as  we're  liars." 


328  AARON'S  ROD 

"And  putting  that  question  aside:  I  presume  that  you 
mean  that  this  committal  of  the  life-issue  of  inferior  beings  to 
someone  higher  shall  be  made  voluntarily — a  sort  of  voluntary 
self-gift  of  the  inferiors — " 

"Yes — more  or  less — and  a  voluntary  acceptance.  For  it's 
no  pretty  gift,  after  all. — But  once  made  it  must  be  held 
fast  by  genuine  power.  Oh  yes — no  playing  and  fooling 
about  with  it.    Permanent  and  very  efficacious  power." 

"You  mean  military  power?" 

"I  do,  of  course." 

Here  Levison  smiled  a  long,  slow,  subtle  smile  of  ridicule. 
It  all  seemed  to  him  the  preposterous  pretentiousness  of  a 
megalomaniac — one  whom,  after  a  while,  humanity  would 
probably  have  the  satisfaction  of  putting  into  prison,  or  into 
a  lunatic  asylum.  And  Levison  felt  strong,  overwhelmingly 
strong,  in  the  huge  social  power  with  which  he,  insignificant 
as  he  was,  was  armed  against  such  criminal-imbecile  pre- 
tensions as  those  above  set  forth.  Prison  or  the  lunatic 
asylum.  The  face  of  the  fellow  gloated  in  these  two  inevitable 
engines  of  his  disapproval. 

"It  will  take  you  some  time  before  you'll  get  your  doctrines 
accepted,"  he  said. 

"Accepted!  I'd  be  sorry.  I  don't  want  a  lot  of  swine 
snouting  and  sniffing  at  me  with  their  acceptance. — Bah, 
Levison — one  can  easily  make  a  fool  of  you.  Do  you  take 
this  as  my  gospel?" 

"I  take  it  you  are  speaking  seriously." 

Here  Lilly  broke  into  that  peculiar,  gay,  whimsical  smile. 

"But  I  should  say  the  hlarik  opposite  with  just  as  much 
fervour,"  he  declared. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  mean  what  you've  been 
saying?"  said  Levison,  now  really  looking  angry. 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you  the  real  truth,"  said  Lilly.  "I  think 
every  man  is  a  sacred  and  holy  individual,  never  to  be  violated. 
I  think  there  is  only  one  thing  I  hate  to  the  verge  of  mad- 
ness, and  that  is  bullying.  To  see  any  living  creature  bullied, 
in  any  way,  almost  makes  a  murderer  of  me.  That  is  true. 
Do  you  believe  it — ?" 


THE  BROKEN  ROD  329 

"Yes,"  said  Levison  unwillingly.  "That  may  be  true  as 
well.  You  have  no  doubt,  like  most  of  us,  got  a  complex 
nature  which — " 

CRASH! 

There  intervened  one  awful  minute  of  pure  shock,  when  the 
soul  was  in  darkness. 

Out  of  this  shock  Aaron  felt  himself  issuing  amid  a  mass 
of  terrible  sensations:  the  fearful  blow  of  the  explosion, 
the  noise  of  glass,  the  hoarse  howl  of  people,  the  rushing  of 
men,  the  sudden  gulf,  the  awful  gulfing  whirlpool  of  horror  in 
the  social  life. 

He  stood  in  agony  and  semi-blindness  amid  a  chaos.  Then 
as  he  began  to  recover  his  consciousness,  he  found  himself 
standing  by  a  pillar  some  distance  from  where  he  had  been 
sitting:  he  saw  a  place  where  tables  and  chairs  were  all  upside 
down,  legs  in  the  air,  amid  debris  of  glass  and  breakage:  he 
saw  the  cafe  almost  empty,  nearly  everybody  gone:  he  saw 
the  owner,  or  the  manager,  advancing  aghast  to  the  place 
of  debris:  he  saw  Lilly  standing  not  far  off,  white  as  a  sheet, 
and  as  if  unconscious.  And  still  he  had  no  idea  of  what  had 
happened.  He  thought  perhaps  something  had  broken  down. 
He  could  not  understand. 

Lilly  began  to  look  round.  He  caught  Aaron's  eye.  And 
then  Aaron  began  to  approach  his  friend. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"A  bomb,"  said  .Lilly. 

The  manager,  and  one  old  waiter,  and  three  or  four  youths 
had  now  advanced  to  the  place  of  debris.  And  now  Aaron 
saw  that  a  man  was  lying  there — and  horror,  blood  was 
running  across  the  floor  of  the  cafe.  Men  began  now  hastily 
to  return  to  the  place.  Some  seized  their  hats  and  departed 
again  at  once.  But  many  began  to  crowd  in — a  black  eager 
crowd  of  men  pressing  to  where  the  bomb  had  burst — ^where 
the  man  was  lying.  It  was  rather  dark,  some  of  the  lamps 
were  broken — but  enough  still  shone.  Men  surged  in  with 
that  eager,  excited  zest  of  people,  when  there  has  been  an 
accident.  Grey  carabinieri,  and  carabinieri  in  the  cocked 
hat  and  fine  Sunday  uniform  pressed  forward  officiously. 


330  AARON'S  ROD 

"Let  us  go,"  said  Lilly. 

And  he  went  to  the  far  corner,  where  his  hat  hung.  But 
Aaron  looked  in  vain  for  his  own  hat.  The  bomb  had  fallen 
near  the  stand  where  he  had  hung  it  and  his  overcoat. 

"My  hat  and  coat?"  he  said  to  Lilly. 

Lilly,  not  very  tall,  stood  on  tiptoe.  Then  he  climbed  on 
a  chair  and  looked  round.    Then  he  squeezed  past  the  crowd. 

Aaron  followed.  On  the  other  side  of  the  crowd  excited 
angry  men  were  wrestling  over  overcoats  that  were  mixed 
up  with  a  broken  marble  table-top.  Aaron  spied  his  own 
black  hat  under  the  sofa  near  the  wall.  He  waited  his  turn 
and  then  in  the  confusion  pressed  forward  to  where  the  coats 
were.  Someone  had  dragged  out  his,  and  it  lay  on  the  floor 
under  many  feet.  He  managed,  with  a  struggle,  to  get  it 
from  under  the  feet  of  the  crowd.  He  felt  at  once  for  his 
flute.  But  his  trampled,  torn  coat  had  no  flute  in  its  pocket. 
He  pushed  and  struggled,  caught  sight  of  a  section,  and  picked 
it  up.  But  it  was  split  right  down,  two  silver  stops  were  torn 
out,  and  a  long  thin  spelch  of  wood  was  curiously  torn  off. 
He  looked  at  it,  and  his  heart  stood  still.  No  need  to  look 
for  the  rest. 

He  felt  utterly,  utterly  overcome — as  if  he  didn't  care  what 
became  of  him  any  further.  He  didn't  care  whether  he  were 
hit  by  a  bomb,  or  whether  he  himself  threw  the  next  bomb, 
and  hit  somebody.  He  just  didn't  care  any  more  about 
anything  in  life  or  death.  It  was  as  if  the  reins  of  his  life 
slipped  from  his  hands.  And  he  would  let  everything  run 
where  it  would,  so  long  as  it  did  run. 

Then  he  became  aware  of  Lilly's  eyes  on  him — ^and  auto- 
matically he  joined  the  little  man. 

"Let  us  go,"  said  Lilly. 

And  they  pushed  their  way  through  the  door.  The  police 
were  just  marching  across  the  square.  Aaron  and  Lilly  walked 
in  the  opposite  direction.  Groups  of  people  were  watching. 
Suddenly  Lilly  swerved — in  the  middle  of  the  road  was  a 
large  black  glisten  of  blood,  trickling  horribly.  A  wounded 
man  had  run  from  the  blow  and  fallen  here. 

Aaron  did  not  know  where  he  was  going.    But  in  the  Via 


THE  BROKEN  ROD  331 

Tournabuoni  Lilly  turned  towards  the  Arno,  2md  soon  they 
were  on  the  Ponte  Santa  Triniti. 

"Who  threw  the  bomb?'*  said  Aaron. 

"I  suppose  an  anarchist." 

"It's  all  the  same,"  said  Aaron. 

The  two  men,  as  if  unable  to  walk  any  further,  leaned  on 
the  broad  parapet  of  the  bridge  and  looked  at  the  water  in 
the  darkness  of  the  still,  deserted  night.  Aaron  still  had  his 
flute  section  in  his  hand,  his  overcoat  over  his  arm. 

"Is  that  your  flute?"  asked  Lilly. 

"Bit  of  it.    Smashed." 

"Let  me  look." 

He  looked,  and  gave  it  back. 

"No  good,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Aaron. 

"Throw  it  in  the  river,  Aaron,"  said  Lilly. 

Aaron  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"Throw  it  in  the  river,"  repeated  Lilly.    "It's  an  end." 

Aaron  nervelessly  dropped  the  flute  into  the  stream.  The 
two  men  stood  leaning  on  the  bridge-parapet,  as  if  unable  to 
move. 

"We  shall  have  to  go  home,"  said  Lilly.  "Tanny  may  hear 
of  it  and  be  anxious." 

Aaron  was  quite  dumbfounded  by  the  night's  event:  the  loss 
of  his  flute.  Here  was  a  blow  he  had  not  expected.  And  the 
loss  was  for  him  s5mibolistic.  It  chimed  with  something  in 
his  soul:  the  bomb,  the  smashed  flute,  the  end. 

"There  goes  Aaron's  Rod,  then,"  he  said  to  Lilly. 

"It'll  grow  again.  It's  a  reed,  a  water-plant — ^you  can't 
kill  it,"  said  Lilly,  unheeding. 

"And  me?" 

"Youll  have  to  live  without  a  rod,  meanwhile." 

To  which  pleasant  remark  Aaron  made  no  reply. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WORDS 

He  went  home  to  bed:  and  dreamed  a  strange  dream.  He 
dreamed  that  he  was  in  a  country  with  which  he  was  not  ac- 
quainted. Night  was  coming  on,  and  he  had  nowhere  to  sleep. 
So  he  passed  the  mouth  of  a  sort  of  cave  or  house,  in  which 
a  woman,  an  old  woman,  sat.  Therefore  he  entered,  and 
though  he  could  not  understand  the  language,  still  his  second 
self  understood.  The  cave  was  a  house:  and  men  came  home 
from  work.  His  second  self  assumed  that  they  were  tin-miners. 

He  wandered  uneasily  to  and  fro,  no  one  taking  any 
particular  notice  of  him.  And  he  realized  that  there  was  a 
whole  vast  country  spreading,  a  sort  of  underworld  country, 
spreading  away  beyond  him.  He  wandered  from  vast  apart- 
ment to  apartment,  down  narrow  corridors  like  the  roads  in 
a  mine.  In  one  of  the  great  square  rooms,  the  men  were  going 
to  eat.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  what  they  were  going  to 
eat  was  a  man,  naked  man.  But  his  second  self  knew  that 
what  appeared  to  his  eyes  as  a  man  was  really  a  man's  skin 
stuffed  tight  with  prepared  meat,  as  the  skin  of  a  Bologna 
sausage.  This  did  not  prevent  his  seeing  the  naked  man  who 
was  to  be  eaten  walk  slowly  and  stiffly  across  the  gangway 
and  down  the  corridor.  He  saw  him  from  behind.  It  was  a 
big  handsome  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  quite  naked  and 
perhaps  stupid.  But  of  course  he  was  only  a  skin  stuffed 
with  meat,  whom  the  grey  tin-miners  were  going  to  eat. 

Aaron,  the  dream-Aaron,  turned  another  way,  and  strayed 
along  the  vast  square  rooms,  cavern  apartments.  He  came 
into  one  room  where  there  were  many  children,  all  in  white 
gowns.  And  they  were  all  busily  putting  themselves  to  bed, 
in  the  many  beds  scattered  about  the  room  at  haphazard. 
And  each  child  went  to  bed  with  a  wreath  of  flowers  on  its 
head,  white  flowers  and  pink,  so  it  seemed.    So  there  they  all 

332 


WORDS  333 

lay,  in  their  flower-crowns  in  the  vast  space  of  the  rooms. 
And  Aaron  went  away. 

He  could  not  remember  the  following  part.  Only  he  seemed 
to  have  passed  through  many  grey  domestic  apartments,  where 
were  all  women,  all  greyish  in  their  clothes  and  appearance, 
being  wives  of  the  underground  tin-miners.  The  men  were 
away  and  the  dream-Aaron  remembered  with  fear  the  food 
they  were  to  eat. 

The  next  thing  he  could  recall  was,  that  he  was  in  a  boat. 
And  now  he  was  most  definitely  two  people.  His  invisible, 
conscious  self,  what  we  have  called  his  second  self,  hovered 
as  it  were  before  the  prow  of  the  boat,  seeing  and  knowing, 
but  unseen.  His  other  self,  the  palpable  Aaron,  sat  as  a 
passenger  in  the  boat,  which  was  being  rowed  by  the  unknown 
people  of  this  underworld.  They  stood  up  as  they  thrust  the 
boat  along.  Other  passengers  were  in  the  boat  too,  women 
as  well,  but  all  of  them  unknown  people,  and  not  noticeable. 

The  boat  was  upon  a  great  lake  in  the  underworld  country, 
a  lake  of  dark  blue  water,  but  crystal  clear  and  very  beautiful 
in  colour.  The  second  or  invisible  Aaron  sat  in  the  prow  and 
watched  the  fishes  swimming  suspended  in  the  clear,  beautiful 
dark-blue  water.  Some  were  pale  fish,  some  frightening- 
looking,  like  centipedes  swimming,  and  some  were  dark  fish, 
of  definite  form,  and  delightful  to  watch. 

The  palpable  or  visible  Aaron  sat  at  the  side  of  the  boat, 
on  the  end  of  the  middle  seat,  with  his  naked  right  elbow 
leaning  out  over  the  side.  And  now  the  boat  entered  upon 
shallows.  The  impalpable  Aaron  in  the  bows  saw  the  whitish 
clay  of  the  bottom  swirl  up  in  clouds  at  each  thrust  of  the 
oars,  whitish-clayey  clouds  which  would  envelope  the  strange 
fishes  in  a  sudden  mist.  And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  course 
stakes  stood  up  in  the  water,  at  intervals,  to  mark  the  course. 

The  boat  must  pass  very  near  these  stakes,  almost  touch- 
ing. And  Aaron^s  naked  elbow  was  leaning  right  over  the 
side.  As  they  approached  the  first  stake,  the  boatmen  all 
uttered  a  strange  cry  of  warning,  in  a  foreign  language.  The 
flesh-and-blood  Aaron  seemed  not  even  to  hear.  The  invisible 
Aaron  heard,  but  did  not  comprehend  the  words  of  the  cry. 


334  AARON'S  ROD 

So  the  naked  elbow  struck  smartly  against  the  stake  as  the 
boat  paiaed. 

The  rowers  rowed  on.  And  still  the  flesh-and-blood  Aaron 
sat  with  his  arm  over  the  side.  Another  stake  was  nearing. 
*'Will  he  heed,  will  he  heed?"  thought  the  anxious  second  self. 
The  rowers  gave  the  strange  warning  cry.  He  did  not  heed, 
and  again  the  elbow  struck  against  the  stake  as  the  boat  passed. 

And  yet  the  flesh-and-blood  Aaron  sat  on  and  made  no  sign. 
There  were  stakes  all  along  this  shallow  part  of  the  lake. 
Beyond  was  deep  water  again.  The  invisible  Aaron  was 
becoming  anxious.  "Will  he  never  hear?  Will  he  never 
heed?  Will  he  never  understand?''  he  thought.  And  he 
watched  in  pain  for  the  next  stake.  But  still  the  flesh-and- 
blood  Aaron  sat  on,  and  though  the  rowers  cried  so  acutely 
that  the  invisible  Aaron  almost  understood  their  very  language, 
still  the  Aaron  seated  at  the  side  heard  nothing,  and  his  elbow 
struck  against  the  third  stake. 

This  was  almost  too  much.  But  after  a  few  moments,  as  the 
boat  rowed  on,  the  palpable  Aaron  changed  his  position  as 
he  sat,  and  drew  in  his  arm:  though  even  now  he  was  not 
aware  of  any  need  to  do  so.  The  invisible  Aaron  breathed 
with  relief  in  the  bows,  the  boat  swung  steadily  on,  into  the 
deep,  unfathomable  water  again. 

They  were  drawing  near  a  city.  A  lake-city,  like  Mexico. 
They  must  have  reached  a  city,  because  when  Aaron  woke  up 
and  tried  to  piece  together  the  dream  of  which  these  are  mere 
fragments,  he  could  remember  having  just  seen  an  idol.  An 
Astarte  he  knew  it  as,  seated  by  the  road,  and  in  her  open 
lap,  were  some  eggs:  smallish  hen's  eggs,  and  one  or  two  bigger 
eggs,  like  swan's,  and  one  single  little  roll  of  bread.  These 
lay  in  the  lap  of  the  roadside  Astarte.  .  .  .  And  then  he 
could  remember  no  more. 

He  woke,  and  for  a  minute  tried  to  remember  what  he  had 
been  dreaming,  and  what  it  all  meant.  But  he  quickly  re- 
linquished the  effort.  So  he  looked  at  his  watch:  it  was  only 
half-past  three.  He  had  one  of  those  American  watches  with 
luminous,  phosphorescent  figures  and  fingers.  And  tonight  he 
felt  afraid  of  its  eerily  shining  face. 


WORDS  335 

He  was  awake  a  long  time  in  the  dark — for  two  hours,  think- 
ing and  not  thinking,  in  that  barren  state  which  is  not  sleep, 
nor  yet  full  wakefulness,  and  which  is  a  painful  strain.  At 
length  he  went  to  sleep  again,  and  did  not  wake  till  past  eight 
o^clock.    He  did  not  ring  for  his  coffee  till  nine. 

Outside  was  a  bright  day — but  he  hardly  heeded  it.  He 
lay  profitlessly  thinking.  With  the  breaking  of  the  flute, 
that  which  was  slowly  breaking  had  finally  shattered  at  last. 
And  there  was  nothing  ahead:  no  plan,  no  prospect.  He  knew 
quite  well  that  people  would  help  him:  Francis  Dekker  or 
Angus  Guest  or  the  Marchese  or  Lilly.  They  would  get  him 
a  new  flute,  and  find  him  engagements.  But  what  was  the 
good?  His  flute  was  broken,  and  broken  finally.  The  bomb 
had  settled  it.  The  bomb  had  settled  it  and  everything.  It 
was  an  end,  no  matter  how  he  tried  to  patch  things  up.  The 
only  thing  he  felt  was  a  thread  of  destiny  attaching  him  to 
Lilly.  The  rest  had  all  gone  as  bare  and  bald  as  the  dead  orb 
of  the  moon.  So  he  made  up  his  mind,  if  he  could,  to  make 
some  plan  that  would  bring  his  life  together  with  that  of  his 
evanescent  friend. 

Lilly  was  a  peculiar  bird.  Clever  and  attractive  as  he 
undoubtedly  was,  he  was  perhaps  the  most  objectionable 
person  to  know.  It  was  stamped  on  his  peculiar  face.  Aaron 
thought  of  Lilly's  dark,  ugly  face,  which  had  something  that 
lurked  in  it  as  a  creature  under  leaves.  Then  he  thought  of 
the  wide-apart  eyes,  with  their  curious  candour  and  surety. 
The  peculiar,  half-veiled  surety,  as  if  nothing,  nothing  could 
overcome  him.  It  made  people  angry,  this  look  of  silent,  in- 
different assurance.  "Nothing  can  touch  him  on  the  quick, 
nothing  can  really  get  at  him,"  they  felt  at  last.  And  they  felt 
it  with  resentment,  almost  with  hate.  They  wanted  to  be  able 
to  get  at  him.  For  he  was  so  open-seeming,  so  very  out- 
spoken. He  gave  himself  away  so  much.  And  he  had  no 
money  to  fall  back  on.  Yet  he  gave  himself  away  so  easily, 
paid  such  attention,  almost  deference  to  any  chance  friend. 
So  they  all  thought:  Here  is  a  wise  person  who  finds  me  the 
wonder  which  I  really  am. — And  lo  and  behold,  after  he  had 
given  them  the  trial,  and  found  their  inevitable  limitations, 


336  AARON'S  ROD 

he  departed  and  ceased  to  heed  their  wonderful  existence. 
Which,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  fraudulent  and  damnable. 
It  was  then,  after  his  departure,  that  they  realised  his  basic 
indifference  to  them,  and  his  silent  arrogance.  A  silent 
arrogance  that  knew  all  their  wisdom,  and  left  them  to  it. 

Aaron  had  been  through  it  all.  He  had  started  by  think- 
ing Lilly  a  peculiar  little  freak:  gone  on  to  think  him  a  won- 
derful chap,  and  a  bit  pathetic:  progressed,  and  found  him 
generous,  but  overbearing:  then  cruel  and  intolerant,  allow- 
ing no  man  to  have  a  soul  of  his  own :  then  terribly  arrogant, 
throwing  a  fellow  aside  like  an  old  glove  which  is  in  holes  at 
the  finger-ends.  And  all  the  time,  which  was  most  beastly, 
seeing  through  one.  All  the  time,  freak  and  outsider  as  he 
was,  Lilly  knew.  He  knew,  and  his  soul  was  against  the 
whole  world. 

Driven  to  bay,  and  forced  to  choose.  Forced  to  choose, 
not  between  life  and  death,  but  between  the  world  and  the 
uncertain,  assertive  Lilly.  Forced  to  choose,  and  yet,  in  the 
world,  having  nothing  left  to  choose.  For  in  the  world  there 
was  nothing  left  to  choose,  unless  he  would  give  in  and  try 
for  success.  Aaron  knew  well  enough  that  if  he  liked  to  do  a 
bit  of  buttering,  people  would  gladly  make  a  success  of  him, 
and  give  him  money  and  success.  He  could  become  quite  a 
favourite. 

But  no!  If  he  had  to  give  in  to  something:  if  he  really 
had  to  give  in,  and  it  seemed  he  had:  then  he  would  rather  give 
in  to  the  little  Lilly  than  to  the  beastly  people  of  the  world. 
If  he  had  to  give  in,  then  it  should  be  to  no  woman,  and  to  no 
social  ideal,  and  to  no  social  institution.  No! — if  he  had  to 
yield  his  wilful  independence,  and  give  himself,  then  he  would 
rather  give  himself  to  the  little,  individual  man  than  to  any 
of  the  rest.  For  to  tell  the  truth,  in  the  man  was  something 
incomprehensible,  which  had  dominion  over  him,  if  he  chose 
to  allow  it. 

As  he  lay  pondering  this  over,  escaping  from  the  cul  de  sac 
in  which  he  had  been  running  for  so  long,  by  yielding  to  one 
of  his  pursuers:  yielding  to  the  peculiar  mastery  of  one  man's 
nature  rather  than  to  the  quicksands  of  woman  or  the  stink- 


WORDS  337 

ing  bogs  of  society:  yielding,  since  yield  he  must,  in  some 
direction  or  other:  yielding  in  a  new  direction  now,  to  one 
strange  and  incalculable  little  individual:  as  Aaron  lay  so  re- 
laxing, finding  a  peculiar  delight  in  giving  his  soul  to  his 
mind's  hero,  the  self -same  hero  tapped  and  entered. 

"I  wondered,"  he  said,  "if  you'd  like  to  walk  into  the 
country  with  me:  it  is  such  a  nice  day.  I  thought  you  might 
have  gone  out  already.  But  here  you  are  in  bed  like  a  woman 
who's  had  a  baby. — You're  all  right,  are  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron.    "I'm  all  right." 

"Miserable  about  your  flute? — Ah,  well,  there  are  more 
flutes.  Get  up  then."  And  Lilly  went  to  the  window,  and 
stood  looking  out  at  the  river. 

"We're  going  away  on  Thursday,"  he  said. 

"Where  to?"  said  Aaron. 

"Naples.  We've  got  a  little  house  there  for  the  winter — 
in  the  country,  not  far  from  Sorrento — I  must  get  a  bit  of 
work  done,  now  the  winter  is  coming.  And  forget  all  about 
everything  and  just  live  with  life.  What's  the  good  of  run- 
ning after  life,  when  we've  got  it  in  us,  if  nobody  prevents  us 
and  obstructs  us?" 

Aaron  felt  very  queer. 

"But  for  how  long  will  you  settle  down — ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  only  the  winter.  I  am  a  vagrant  really:  or  a  migrant. 
I  must  migrate.  Do  you  think  a  cuckoo  in  Africa  and  a 
cuckoo  in  Essex  is  one  and  the  same  bird?  Anyhow,  I  know 
I  must  oscillate  between  north  and  south,  so  oscillate  I  do. 
It's  just  my  nature.    All  people  don't  have  the  same  needs." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Aaron,  who  had  risen  and  was  sitting 
on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"I  would  very  much  like  to  try  life  in  another  continent, 
among  another  race.  I  feel  Europe  becoming  like  a;  cage  to 
me.  Europe  may  be  all  right  in  herself.  But  I  find  myself 
chafing.  Another  year  I  shall  get  out.  I  shall  leave  Europe. 
I  begin  to  feel  caged." 

"I  guess  there  are  others  that  feel  caged,  as  well  as  you," 
said  Aaron. 

"I  guess  there  are." 


338  AARON'S  ROD 

"And  maybe  they  haven't  a  chance  to  get  out." 

Lilly  was  silent  a  moment.    Then  he  said: 

"Well,  I  didn't  make  life  and  society.  I  can  only  go  my 
own  way." 

Aaron  too  was  silent.  A  deep  disappointment  was  settling 
over  his  spirit. 

"Will  you  be  alone  all  winter?" 

"Just  myself  and  Tanny,"  he  answered.  "But  people 
always  turn  up." 

"And  then  next  year,  what  will  you  do?" 

"Who  knows?  I  may  sail  far  off.  I  should  like  to.  I 
should  like  to  try  quite  a  new  life-mode.  This  is  finished  in 
me — and  yet  perhaps  it  is  absurd  to  go  further.  I'm  rather 
sick  of  seekers.    I  hate  a  seeker." 

"What,"  said  Aaron  rather  sarcastically — "those  who  are 
looking  for  a  new  religion?" 

"Religion — and  love — and  all  that.     It's  a  disease  now." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Aaron.  "Perhaps  the  lack  of 
love  and  religion  is  the  disease." 

"Ah — bah!  The  grinding  the  old  millstones  of  love  and 
God  is  what  ails  us,  when  there's  no  more  grist  between  the 
stones.  We've  ground  love  very  small.  Time  to  forget  it. 
Forget  the  very  words  religion,  and  God,  and  love — then  have 
a  shot  at  a  new  mode.  But  the  very  words  rivet  us  down  and 
don't  let  us  move.    Rivets,  and  we  can't  get  them  out." 

"And  where  should  we  be  if  we  could?"  said  Aaron. 

"We  might  begin  to  be  ourselves,  anyhow." 

"And  what  does  that  mean?"  said  Aaron.  "Being  yourself 
— ^what  does  it  mean?" 

"To  me,  everything." 

"And  to  most  folks,  nothing.    TheyVe  got  to  have  a  goal." 

"There  is  no  goal.  I  loathe  goals  more  than  any  other 
impertinence.  Gaols,  they  are.  Bah — ^jails  and  jailers,  gaols 
and  gaolers " 

"Wherever  you  go,  you'll  find  people  with  their  noses  tied 
to  some  goal,"  said  Aaron. 

"Their  wagon  hitched  to  a  star — which  goes  round  and 
round  like  an  ass  in  a  gin,"  laughed  Lilly.    "Be  damned  to  it." 


WORDS  339 

Aaron  got  himself  dressed,  and  the  two  men  went  out,  took 
a  tram  and  went  into  the  country.  Aaron  could  not  help  it — 
Lilly  put  his  back  up.  They  came  to  a  little  inn  near  a 
bridge,  where  a  broad  stream  rustled  bright  and  shallow.  It 
was  a  sunny  warm  day,  and  Aaron  and  Lilly  had  a  table  out- 
side under  the  thin  trees  at  the  top  of  the  bank  above  the 
river.  The  yellow  leaves  were  falling — the  Tuscan  sky  was 
turquoise  blue.  In  the  stream  below  three  naked  boys  still 
adventurously  bathed,  and  lay  flat  on  the  shingle  in  the  sun. 
A  wagon  with  two  pale,  loving,  velvety  oxen  drew  slowly  down 
the  hill,  looking  at  each  step  as  if  they  were  going  to  come  to 
rest,  to  move  no  more.  But  still  they  stepped  forward.  Till 
they  came  to  the  inn,  and  there  they  stood  at  rest.  Two  old 
women  were  picking  the  last  acorns  under  three  scrubby  oak- 
trees,  whilst  a  girl  with  bare  feet  drove  her  two  goats  and  a 
sheep  up  from  the  water-side  towards  the  women.  The  girl 
wore  a  dress  that  had  been  blue,  perhaps  indigo,  but  which 
had  faded  to  the  beautiful  lavender-purple  colour  which  is 
so  common,  and  which  always  reminded  Lilly  of  purple  anem- 
ones in  the  south. 

The  two  friends  sat  in  the  sun  and  drank  red  wine.  It  was 
midday.  From  the  thin,  square  belfry  on  the  opposite  hill 
the  bells  had  rung.  The  old  women  and  the  girl  squatted 
under  the  trees,  eating  their  bread  and  figs.  The  boys  were 
dressing,  fluttering  into  their  shirts  on  the  stream's  shingle. 
A  big  girl  went  past,  with  somebody's  dinner  tied  in  a  red 
kerchief  and  perched  on  her  head.  It  was  one  of  the  most 
precious  hours:  the  hour  of  pause,  noon,  and  the  sun,  and 
the  quiet  acceptance  of  the  world.  At  such  a  time  every- 
thing seems  to  fall  into  a  true  relationship,  after  the  strain 
of  work  and  of  urge. 

Aaron  looked  at  Lilly,  and  saw  the  same  odd,  distant  look 
on  his  face  as  on  the  face  of  some  animal  when  it  lies  awake 
and  alert,  yet  perfectly  at  one  with  its  surroundings.  It  was 
something  quite  different  from  happiness:  an  alert  enjoyment 
of  rest,  an  intense  and  satisfying  sense  of  centrality.  As  a 
dog  when  it  basks  in  the  sun  with  one  eye  open  and  winking: 
or  a  rabbit  quite  still  and  wide-eyed,  with  a  faintly-twitching 


340  AARON'S  ROD 

nose.  Not  passivity,  but  alert  enjoyment  of  being  central, 
life-central  in  one's  own  little  circumambient  world. 

They  sat  thus  still — or  lay  imder  the  trees — for  an  hour 
and  a  half.    Then  Lilly  paid  the  bill,  and  went  on. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do  this  winter,  do  you  think?"  Aaron 
asked. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?" 

"Nay,  that's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"Do  you  want  anything?  I  mean,  does  something  drive 
you  from  inside?" 

"I  can't  just  rest,"  said  Aaron. 

"Can't  you  settle  down  to  something? — to  a  job,  for  in- 
stance?" 

"I've  not  found  the  job  I  could  settle  down  to,  yet,"  said 
Aaron. 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  just  my  nature." 

"Are  you  a  seeker?    Have  you  got  a  divine  urge,  or'tieed?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  laughed  Aaron.  "Perhaps  I've  got  a 
damned  urge,  at  the  bottom  of  me.  I'm  sure  it's  nothing 
divine." 

"Very  well  then.  Now,  in  life,  there  are  only  two  great 
dynamic  urges — do  you  believe  me — ?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  laughed  Aaron.  "Do  you  want  to  be 
believed?" 

"No,  I  don't  care  a  straw.  Only  for  your  own  sake,  you'd 
better  believe  me." 

"All  right  then— what  about  it?" 

"Well,  then,  there  are  only  two  great  dynamic  urges  in 
life:  love  and  power." 

"Love  and  power?"  said  Aaron.  "I  don't  see  power  as  so 
very  important." 

"You  don't  see  because  you  don't  look.  But  that's  not  the 
point.    What  sort  of  urge  is  your  urge?    Is  it  the  love  urge?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Aaron. 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  know  that  you  have  got  an  urge,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes — "  rather  unwillingly  Aaron  admitted  it. 


WORDS  341 

"Well  then,  what  is  it?  Is  it  that  you  want  to  love,  or  to 
be  obeyed?" 

"A  bit  of  both." 

"All  right — a  bit  of  both.  And  what  are  you  looking  for 
in  love? — A  woman  whom  you  can  love,  and  who  will  love 
you,  out  and  out  and  all  in  all  and  happy  ever  after  sort  of 
thing?" 

"That's  what  I  started  out  for,  perhaps,"  laughed  Aaron. 

"And  now  you  know  it's  all  my  eye!"  Aaron  looked  at 
Lilly,  unwilling  to  admit  it.    Lilly  began  to  laugh. 

"You  know  it  well  enough,"  he  said.  "It's  one  of  your 
lost  illusions,  my  boy.  Well,  then,  what  next?  Is  it  a  God 
you're  after?  Do  you  want  a  God  you  can  strive  to  and 
attain,  through  love,  and  live  happy  ever  after,  countless  mil- 
lions of  eternities,  immortality  and  all  that?  Is  this  your 
little  dodge?" 

Again  Aaron  looked  at  Lilly  with  that  odd  double  look  of 
mockery  and  unwillingness  to  give  himself  away. 

"All  right  then.    You've  got  a  love-urge  that  urges  you  to 
God,  have  you?    Then  go  and  join  the  Buddhists  in  Burmah, 
or  the  newest  f angled  Christians  in  Europe.     Go  and  stick 
your  head  in  a  bush  of  Nirvana  or  spiritual  perfection.    Trot^ 
off." 

"I  won't,"  said  Aaron. 

"You  must.  If  you've  got  a  love-urge,  then  give  it  its  ful- 
filment." 

"I  haven't  got  a  love-urge." 

"You  have.  You  want  to  get  excited  in  love.  You  want 
to  be  carried  away  in  love.  You  want  to  whoosh  off  in  a  nice 
little  love  whoosh  and  love  yourself.  Don't  deny  it.  I  know 
you  do.  You  want  passion  to  sweep  you  off  on  wings  of 
fire  till  you  surpass  yourself,  and  like  the  swooping  eagle 
swoop  right  into  the  sun.     I  know  you,  my  love-boy." 

"Not  any  more — not  any  more.  I've  been  had  too  often," 
laughed  Aaron. 

"Bah,  it's  a  lesson  men  never  learn.  No  matter  how  sick 
they  make  themselves  with  love,  they  always  rush  for  more, 
like  a  dog  to  his  vomit." 


342  AARON'S  ROD 

^'Well,  what  am  I  to  do  then,  if  I'm  not  to  love?''  cried 
Aaron. 

"You  want  to  go  on,  from  passion  to  passion,  from  ecstasy 
to  ecstasy,  from  triumph  to  triumph,  till  you  can  whoosh 
away  into  glory,  beyond  yourself,  all  bonds  loosened  and 
happy  ever  after.  Either  that  or  Nirvana,  opposite  side  of 
the  medal." 

"There's  probably  more  hate  than  love  in  me,"  said  Aaron. 

"That's  the  recoil  of  the  same  urge.  The  anarchist,  the 
criminal,  the  murderer,  he  is  only  the  extreme  lover  acting  on 
the  recoil.  But  it  is  love:  only  in  recoil.  It  flies  back,  the 
love-urge,  and  becomes  a  horror." 

"All  right  then.  I'm  a  criminal  and  a  murderer,"  said 
Aaron. 

"No,  you're  not.  But  you've  a  love-urge.  And  perhaps  on 
the  recoil  just  now.  But  listen  to  me.  It's  no  good  thinking 
the  love-urge  is  the  one  and  only.  Niente!  You  can  whoosh 
^  if  you  like,  and  get  excited  and  carried  away  loving  a  woman, 
or  humanity,  or  God.  Swoop  away  in  the  love  direction  till 
you  lose  yourself.  But  that's  where  you're  had.  You  can't 
lose  yourself.  You  can  try.  But  you  might  just  as  well  try 
to  swallow  yourself.  You'll  only  bite  your  fingers  off  in  the 
attempt.  You  can't  lose  yourself,  neither  in  woman  nor  hu- 
manity nor  in  God.  You've  always  got  yourself  on  your 
hands  in  the  end:  and  a  very  raw  and  jaded  and  humiliated 
and  nervous-neurasthenic  self  it  is,  too,  in  the  end.  A  very 
nasty  thing  to  wake  up  to  is  one's  own  raw  self  after  an 
excessive  love-whoosh.  Look  even  at  President  Wilson:  he 
love-whooshed  for  humanity,  and  found  in  the  end  he'd 
only  got  a  very  sorry  self  on  his  hands. 

"So  leave  off.  Leave  off,  my  boy.  Leave  off  love-whooshing. 
You  can't  lose  yourself,  so  stop  trying.  The  responsibility  is 
on  your  own  shoulders  all  the  time,  and  no  God  which  man 
has  ever  struck  can  take  it  off.  You  are  yourself  and  so  be 
yourself.  Stick  to  it  and  abide  by  it.  Passion  or  no  passion, 
ecstasy  or  no  ecstasy,  urge  or  no  urge,  there's  no  goal  outside 
you,  where  you  can  consummate  like  an  eagle  flying  into  the 
sun,  or  a  moth  into  a  candle.    There's  no  goal  outside  you — 


WORDS  343 

and  there^s  no  God  outside  you.  No  God,  whom  you  can  get 
to  and  rest  in.    None.    It^s  a  case  of 

'Trot,  trot  to  market,  to  buy  a  penny  bun, 

And  trot,  trot  back  again,  as  fast  as  you  can  run,* 

But  there^s  no  God  outside  you,  whom  you  can  rise  to  or  sink 
to  or  swoop  away  to.  You  can't  even  gum  yourself  to  a  divine 
Nirvana  moon.  Because  all  the  time  youVe  got  to  eat 
your  dinner  and  digest  it.  There  is  no  goal  outside  you. 
None. 

"There  is  only  one  thing,  your  own  very  self.  So  you'd 
better  stick  to  it.  You  can't  be  any  bigger  than  just  yourself, 
so  you  needn't  drag  God  in.  You've  got  one  job,  and  no  more. 
There  inside  you  lies  your  own  very  self,  like  a  germinating 
egg,  your  precious  Easter  egg  of  your  own  soul.  There  it  is, 
developing  bit  by  bit,  from  one  single  egg-cell  which  you  were 
at  your  conception  in  your  mother's  womb,  on  and  on  to  the 
strange  and  peculiar  complication  in  unity  which  never  stops 
till  you  die — if  then.  YouVe  got  an  innermost,  integral 
unique  self,  and  since  it's  the  only  thing  you  have  got  or 
ever  will  have,  don't  go  trying  to  lose  it.  You've  got  to 
develop  it,  from  the  egg  into  the  chicken,  and  from  the  chicken 
into  the  one-and-only  phoenix,  of  which  there  can  only  be 
one  at  a  time  in  the  universe.  There  can  only  be  one  of  you 
at  a  time  in  the  universe — and  one  of  me.  So  don't  forget  it. 
Your  own  single  oneness  is  your  destiny.  Your  destiny  comes 
from  within,  from  your  own  self-form.  And  you  can't  know 
it  beforehand,  neither  your  destiny  nor  your  self-form.  You 
can  only  develop  it.  You  can  only  stick  to  your  own  very 
self,  and  never  betray  it.  And  by  so  sticking,  you  develop 
the  one  and  only  phoenix  of  your  own  self,  and  you  unfold 
your  own  destiny,  as  a  dandelion  unfolds  itself  into  a  dande- 
lion, and  not  into  a  stick  of  celery. 

"Remember  this,  my  boy:  youVe  never  got  to  deny  the 
Holy  Ghost  which  is  inside  you,  your  own  soul's  self.  Never. 
Or  youll  catch  it.  And  you've  never  got  to  think  youll  dodge 
the  responsibility  of  your  own  soul's  self,  by  loving  or  sacri- 


344  AARON'S  ROD 

ficing  or  Nirvaning — or  even  anarchising  and  throwing  bombs. 
You  never  will.  ..." 

Aaron  was  silenced  for  a  moment  by  this  flood  of  words. 
Then  he  said  smiling: 

"So  I'd  better  sit  tight  on  my  soul,  till  it  hatches,  had  I?" 

"Oh,  yes.  If  your  soul's  urge  urges  you  to  love,  then  love. 
But  always  know  that  what  you  are  doing  is  the  fulfilling  of 
your  own  soul's  impulse.  It's  no  good  trying  to  act  by  pre- 
scription: not  a  bit.  And  it^s  no  use  getting  into  frenzies. 
If  you've  got  to  go  in  for  love  and  passion,  go  in  for  them. 
But  they  aren't  the  goal.  They're  a  mere  means:  a  life- 
means,  if  you  will.  The  only  goal  is  the  fulfilling  of  your 
own  soul's  active  desire  and  suggestion.  Be  passionate  as 
much  as  ever  it  is  your  nature  to  be  passionate,  and  deeply 
sensual  as  far  as  you  can  be.  Small  souls  have  a  small  sensu- 
ality, deep  souls  a  deep  one.  But  remember,  all  the  time,  the 
responsibility  is  upon  your  own  head,  it  all  rests  with  your 
own  lonely  soul,  the  responsibility  for  your  own  action.'* 

"I  never  said  it  didn't,"  said  Aaron. 

"You  never  said  it  did.  You  never  accepted.  You  thought 
there  was  something  outside,  to  justify  you:  God,  or  a  creed, 
or  a  prescription.  But  remember,  your  soul  inside  you  is  your 
only  Godhead.  It  develops  your  actions  within  you  as  a  tree 
develops  its  own  new  cells.  And  the  cells  push  on  into  buds 
and  boughs  and  flowers.  And  these  are  your  passion  and 
your  acts  and  your  thoughts  and  expressions,  your  developing 
consciousness.  You  don't  know  beforehand,  and  you  can't. 
You  can  only  stick  to  your  own  soul  through  thick  and 
thin. 

"You  are  your  own  Tree  of  Life,  roots  and  limbs  and  trunk. 
Somewhere  within  the  wholeness  of  the  tree  lies  the  very  self, 
the  quick:  its  own  innate  Holy  Ghost.  And  this  Holy  Ghost 
puts  forth  new  buds,  and  pushes  past  old  limits,  and  shakes 
off  a  whole  body  of  dying  leaves.  And  the  old  limits  hate 
being  empassed,  and  the  old  leaves  hate  to  fall.  But  they 
must,  if  the  tree-soul  says  so.  .  .  ." 

They  had  sat  again  during  this  harangue,  under  a  white 
wall.    Aaron  listened  more  to  the  voice  than  the  words.    It 


WORDS  345 

was  more  the  sound  value  which  entered  his  soul,  the  tone, 
the  strange  speech-music  which  sank  into  him.  The  sense 
he  hardly  heeded.  And  yet  he  understood,  he  knew.  He 
understood,  oh  so  much  more  deeply  than  if  he  had  listened 
with  his  head.  And  he  answered  an  objection  from  the  bottom 
of  his  soul. 

"But  you  talk,"  he  said,  "as  if  we  were  like  trees,  alone  by 
ourselves  in  the  world.  We  aren^t.  If  we  love,  it  needs 
another  person  than  ourselves.  And  if  we  hate,  and  even  if 
we  talk.'' 

"Quite,"  said  Lilly.  "And  that's  just  the  point.  We've 
got  to  love  and  hate  moreover — and  even  talk.  But  we  haven't 
got  to  fix  on  any  one  of  these  modes,  and  say  that's  the  only 
mode.  It  is  such  imbecility  to  say  that  love  and  love  alone 
must  rule.  It  is  so  obviously  not  the  case.  Yet  we  try  and 
make  it  so." 

"I  feel  that,"  said  Aaron.    "It's  all  a  lie." 

"It's  worse.  It's  a  half  lie.  But  listen.  I  told  you  there 
were  two  urges — two  great  life-urges,  didn't  I?  There  may 
be  more.  But  it  comes  on  me  so  strongly,  now,  that  there  are 
two:  love,  and  power.  And  we've  been  trying  to  work  our- 
selves, at  least  as  individuals,  from  the  love-urge  exclusively, 
hating  the  power-urge,  and  repressing  it.  And  now  I  find 
we've  got  to  accept  the  very  thing  we've  hated. 

"We've  exhausted  our  love-urge,  for  the  moment.  And 
yet  we  try  to  force  it  to  continue  working.  So  we  get  inev- 
itably anarchy  and  murder.  It's  no  good.  We've  got  to 
accept  the  power  motive,  accept  it  in  deep  responsibility,  do 
you  understand  me?  It  is  a  great  life  motive.  It  was  that 
great  dark  power-urge  which  kept  Egypt  so  intensely  living 
for  so  many  centuries.  It  is  a  vast  dark  source  of  life  and 
strength  in  us  now,  waiting  either  to  issue  into  true  action, 
or  to  burst  into  cataclysm.  Power — the  power-urge.  The 
will-to-power — ^but  not  in  Nietzsche's  sense.  Not  intellectual 
power.  Not  mental  power.  Not  conscious  will-power.  Not 
even  wisdom.  But  dark,  living,  fructifying  power.  Do  you 
know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Aaron. 


346  AARON'S  ROD 

"Take  what  you  call  love,  for  example.  In  the  real  way  of 
love,  the  positive  aim  is  to  make  the  other  person — or  persons 
— happy.  It  devotes  itself  to  the  other  or  to  others.  But 
change  the  mode.  Let  the  urge  be  the  urge  of  power.  Then 
the  great  desire  is  not  happiness,  neither  of  the  beloved  nor 
of  oneself.  Happiness  is  only  one  of  many  states,  and  it  is 
horrible  to  think  of  fixing  us  down  to  one  state.  The  urge 
of  power  does  not  seek  for  happiness  any  more  than  for  any 
other  state.  'It  urges  from  within,  darkly,  for  the  displacing 
of  the  old  leaves,  the  inception  of  the  new.  It  is  powerful 
and  self-central,  not  seeking  its  centre  outside,  in  some  God 
or  some  beloved,  but  acting  indomitably  from  within  itself. 

"And  of  course  there  must  be  one  who  urges,  and  one  who 
is  impelled.  Just  as  in  love  there  is  a  beloved  and  a  lover: 
The  man  is  supposed  to  be  the  lover,  the  woman  the  beloved. 
Now,  in  the  urge  of  power,  it  is  the  reverse.  The  woman 
must  submit,  but  deeply,  deeply  submit.  Not  to  any  foolish 
fixed  authority,  not  to  any  foolish  and  arbitrary  will.  But  to 
something  deep,  deeper.  To  the  soul  in  its  dark  motion  of 
power  and  pride..  We  must  reverse  the  poles.  The  woman 
must  now  submit — but  deeply,  deeply,  and  richly!  No  sub- 
servience. None  of  that.  No  slavery.  A  deep,  unfathomable 
free  submission." 

"You'll  never  get  it,"  said  Aaron. 

"You  will,  if  you  abandon  the  love  idea  and  the  love  motive, 
and  if  you  stand  apart,  and  never  bully,  never  force  from  the 
conscious  will.  That's  where  Nietzsche  was  wrong.  His  was 
the  conscious  and  benevolent  will,  in  fact,  the  love-will.  But 
the  deep  power-urge  is  not  conscious  of  its  aims:  and  it  is 
certainly  not  consciously  benevolent  or  love-directed. — ^What- 
ever else  happens,  somewhere,  sometime,  the  deep  power-urge 
in  man  will  have  to  issue  forth  again,  and  woman  will  sub- 
mit, livingly,  not  subjectedly." 

"She  never  will,"  persisted  Aaron.  "Anything  else  will 
happen,  but  not  that." 

"She  will,"  said  Lilly,  "once  man  disengages  himself  from 
the  love-mode,  and  stands  clear.  Once  he  stands  clear,  and 
the  other  great  urge  begins  to  flow  in  him,  then  the  woman 


WORDS  347 

won't  be  able  to  resist.  Her  own  soul  will  wish  to  yield 
itself." 

"Woman  yield — ?"  Aaron  re-echoed. 

"Woman — and  man  too.  Yield  to  the  deep  power-soul  in 
the  individual  man,  and  obey  implicitly.  I  don't  go  back  on 
what  I  said  before.  I  do  believe  that  every  man  must  fulfil 
his  own  soul,  every  woman  must  be  herself,  herself  only,  not 
some  man's  instrument,  or  some  embodied  theory.  But  the 
mode  of  our  being  is  such  that  we  can  only  live  and  have  our 
being  whilst  we  are  implicit  in  one  of  the  great  dynamic 
modes.  We  must  either  love,  or  rule.  And  once  the  love- 
mode  changes,  as  change  it  must,  for  we  are  worn  out  and 
becoming  evil  in  its  persistence,  then  the  other  mode  will  take 
place  in  us.  And  there  will  be  profound,  profound  obedience 
in  place  of  this  love-crying,  obedience  to  the  incalculable 
power-urge.  And  men  must  submit  to  the  greater  soul  in  a 
man,  for  their  guidance:  and  women  must  submit  to  the  posi- 
tive power-soul  in  man,  for  their  being." 

"You'll  never  get  it,"  said  Aaron. 

"You  will,  when  all  men  want  it.  All  men  say,  they  want  a 
leader.  Then  let  them  in  their  souls  submit  to  some  greater 
soul  than  theirs.  At  present,  when  they  say  they  want  a  leader, 
they  mean  they  want  an  instrument,  like  Lloyd  George.  A 
mere  instrument  for  their  use.  But  it's  more  than  that.  It's 
the  reverse.  It's  the  deep,  fathomless  submission  to  the  heroic 
soul  in  a  greater  man.  You,  Aaron,  you  too  have  the  need  to 
submit.  You,  too,  have  the  need  livingly  to  yield  to  a  more 
heroic  soul,  to  give  yourself.  You  know  you  have.  And  you 
know  it  isn't  love.  It  is  life-submission.  And  you  know  it. 
But  you  kick  against  the  pricks.  And  perhaps  you'd  rather 
die  than  yield.    And  so,  die  you  must.    It  is  your  affair." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  Aaron  looked  up  into  Lilly's 
face.  It  was  dark  and  remote-seeming.  It  was  like  a  Byzan- 
tine eikon  at  the  moment. 

"And  whom  shall  I  submit  to?"  he  said. 

"Your  soul  will  tell  you,"  repHed  the  other, 

THE  END 


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